


lines crossed (unforgiven)

by aliveanddrunkonsunlight



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Consent is Sexy, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Lord Commander, Lord Commander Jaime Lannister, Mutual Pining, Night's Watch, Power Imbalance, Praise Kink, Sexual Content, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension, bossy Jaime, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:35:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 35,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24868465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliveanddrunkonsunlight/pseuds/aliveanddrunkonsunlight
Summary: Brienne is sentenced to the Night's Watch after Renly's death, where she meets Lord Commander Jaime Lannister.Glancing up, she notices the Lord Commander watching them from the stairs leading to the keep’s barbican, only this time, his gaze does not make her stomach churn in distaste, but rather she feels a bloom of blush on her cheeks. All her life she’s longed to be recognized as a fighter, and he is one of the best in Westeros, despite his defining act.Late one evening she is summoned to his rooms. He is wearing a sleeping tunic, its laces undone, showing a slice of his toned chest. She is alone with him.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 974
Kudos: 663





	1. arrival

**Author's Note:**

> FYI: Brienne did not kill Renly. It was the shadow baby.

When Brienne is 20, she watches Renly Baratheon be killed. 

Accused of his murder, she becomes the first woman sentenced to the Night’s Watch. 

Castle Black is gray and bleak. Eyes puffy from crying, she is ushered through the halls to the Lord Commander’s rooms. 

Jaime Lannister surveys every inch, haughty green eyes slicing through her, as if she is worse than him. A Kingslayer. 

Before he slew Aerys, he was thought to be the most handsome man in the Seven Kingdoms. The Golden Knight. A cascade of blond hair and dramatic green eyes. Strong and muscular. A sharp jaw and an even sharper wit. 

But now, he matches his surroundings, darkening hair, and several days growth lining his jaw. Even seated, however, Brienne notes his muscular frame. Despite his misdeeds, his fighting skills placed him at the top of the heap, named a Ranger at 18, and selected as Lord Commander at 25. 

A grin twists his mouth before he speaks, “There has been much outcry from the Brothers, regarding your punishment.” Tongue darting out, wetting his lips before continuing. “Many do not believe you should live, others argue there is no place for a woman here. Still others say you are a provocation, a temptation to break their vows.” He falls silent, his eyes flicking up and down her body. “Clearly, they have not seen you.” 

“It was Queen Cersei who decided my fate,” she scowls at him, before uttering his title, disdain coating every syllable. “ _Lord Commander_.” 

“Ah yes, my charming sister,” Lannister replies, his voice cloyingly sweet. “Well, I have no power to overturn a Queen’s order, so I suppose you will have to stay.” He dismisses her with a wave of his hand, as if she is a fly. “Snow will show you to your accommodations.” 

The japes and crude remarks from the Brothers hardly rattle her. She heard worse in Renly’s camp, but whenever she catches Lord Commander Lannister staring at her from the head table, his gaze haunts her through the remaining hours of the day. 

Upon entering the training yard, she beats two, three Brothers easily. Samwell Tarly’s eyes are wide as she steps aside after defeating the last of them. “Where did you learn to fight like that?” 

But Jon Snow is smiling. “You remind me of my little sister.” 

Glancing up, she notices the Lord Commander watching them from the stairs leading to the keep’s barbican, only this time, his gaze does not make her stomach churn in distaste, but rather she feels a bloom of blush on her cheeks. All her life she’s longed to be recognized as a fighter, and he is one of the best in Westeros, despite his defining act.

Late one evening she is summoned to his rooms. He is wearing a sleeping tunic, its laces undone, showing a slice of his toned chest. She is alone with him. 

The Lord Commander turns in his chair, placing his feet evenly on the floor, and widening his legs. Heat licks at her skin. She longs to drop her gaze, but cannot. He looks at her as if she were some doe in the woods and he a wolf, stalking his prey. Jaime drums his fingers on the table, drawing his tongue slowly along his bottom lip. Her mind flashes to his long fingers holding her wrists together above her head, his tongue between her thighs. She presses her legs together, focusing on her breath. 

His mouth curls up into a devilish smile. “You will take your vows tomorrow, Tarth. I am raising you to Steward.” Her stomach plummets. Brienne hoped for Ranger, although she knew it was unlikely, sending a woman out to defend and protect the Wall and castles of the Night’s Watch. 

“I am a strong fighter, Lord Commander. Might I not be better suited for the Rangers?” She does not know what bravery possesses her to question him. 

He raises an eyebrow. “You are bolder than I imagined. That’s good.” His lips are parted, as he tips his head back to look at her, his eyes raking over her body. “For you are to become my personal steward. You will serve me.” The bed behind him is neatly made, but it does not prevent her from having another flash of him standing between her legs, driving into her, her cries of pleasure ringing through the room. “Do you understand me?” She presses her thighs tighter together. 

“Yes,” she nods, obedient. “It will be a pleasure to serve under you, Lord Commander.” 

A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth, but he suppresses it, again dismissing her with a flick of his hand. “Good evening, _Brienne_.” The way he says her given name ripples down her spine, gooseflesh breaking out on her arms. 

Outside his chambers, she chastens herself. She has never kissed anyone, let alone imagined anything like _that_ before. Members of the Night’s Watch swear to take no wife, hold no lands, and father no children. Including the Lord Commander. He had served for 14 years without breaking his oath; she had occupied Castle Black for only a few weeks. She _detests_ him. 

And yet.


	2. the yard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a quiet challenge in his gaze, one which she feels she cannot deny. “I will consider it.” She grasps the tourney sword and turns towards the castle. As she walks, his gaze follows her across the yard. Already, she can imagine them sparring. Him pinning her to the ground, her pinning him to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very grateful for the support this has received so far. I'm a bit nervous that some of the content in these chapters will make people want to stop reading, but one of the tags is "consent is sexy". Because it is.

The only way to rid herself of inappropriate thoughts about the Lord Commander is to remember the series of events which led her here. She had not killed Renly, but she had watched, frozen, as the shadow choked the life out of him. He was the only man who treated her not as a girl with a sword, but an equal. 

After a restless night, Brienne rises early. Donning drab clothing, she strides out to the courtyard. The sun has barely edged over the horizon, but the blue light of dawn matches her melancholy mood. In the yard, there are several straw dummies, which she has not used for practice since she was nine or ten, but she’s come to take out her aggression, so she might as well use them. 

Her attack is as methodical as it would be if she was facing a live opponent rather than an immobile dummy made of straw. She approaches two different ways, once on the left side, then the right. Breathing hard, she taps the tourney sword against her boots, thinking about the daily exercises Ser Goodwin guided her through and the ones she’d learned in Renly’s guard. Running through several more, she is beginning to see the benefit of the dummy. It does become a good target for taking out frustrations, although it sometimes moves--not due to her strikes--but because of the wind. 

When she can scarcely breathe, she drops her tourney sword into the dirt, her body bent over at the waist, hands grasping her knees, as she sucks air into her lungs. Sweat drips down her neck and into her eyes. Without thinking, she straightens and lifts the edge of her tunic to wipe the sweat from her brow. The dark fabric is over her eyes when she hears, “You are quite talented with a sword, I will give you that.” The arrogance oozes from every word. She blanches and drops the tunic, fully aware Lord Commander Lannister just received a free view of her stomach. 

“What are you doing here?” she practically spits. 

A warning glint in his eyes tells her she would do well to remember her place. “I may go where I please,” he says, his voice cool, head cocking to the left as he studies her. Walking over to where her tourney sword landed in the dirt, he shoves a heel into the handle, the wood flipping up into the air towards him, and he catches it easily. His movements edge towards languid. It’s because he feels comfortable here, the same as she does. “I usually practice in the mornings.” He rotates his wrist, the wooden sword twirling effortlessly in his hand, as if it were silk. Brienne crosses her arms over her chest, determined not to be impressed. “It is the only time I can pretend that things are…” he trails off, searching for a word. “Ordinary.” The Lord Commander extends the sword to her. “If you plan to continue practicing in the mornings, perhaps you will consider sparring with me.” He arches an eyebrow. “I might be a more worthy opponent than these straw men.”

There is a quiet challenge in his gaze, one which she feels she cannot deny. “I will consider it.” She grasps the tourney sword and turns towards the castle. As she walks, his gaze follows her across the yard. Already, she can imagine them sparring. Him pinning her to the ground, her pinning him to the ground, one of them hastily untying the other’s laces until they are fucking in the middle of the training yard. 

Tucked back into the safety of her room, Brienne recalls Highgarden. A few days before Renly’s marriage to Margaery, the young queen in waiting had a woman teach the art of seduction. She allowed her clique of cousins and other friends to attend, including Brienne, who had not realized what the invitation entailed. She does not know why these techniques would wind their way into her mind now, when faced with one of the most dishonorable men she’s ever met, but it is clear she cannot outrun or exhaust her thoughts. 

Any relaxation she hoped to gain from her workout this morning has evaporated. Brienne tears through the castle’s halls. She should be sitting down to the first meal of the day, but instead decides it may be a good time to visit the castle’s baths, in hopes of maintaining some modicum of privacy, for the Watch has stated they cannot provide separate accommodations for her, except for her small sleeping room. She is to take her vows to the Night’s Watch that evening, the only small sense of honor left for her, and she would like to be presentable for them.

_Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no husband, hold no lands, bear no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come._

After she takes her vows in the sept, she expects to be called to the Lord Commander’s service immediately, but he does not ask for her during the evening meal or in the hours afterwards. Despite Jon Snow’s words of reassurance that Lord Commander Lannister’s request is an honor, she doubts her selection as his personal steward is to groom her for a rapid rise in the Watch. 

The summons comes late, even later than the night before. She is already in her nightrobe, a long black one which her father sent her. Dread curls in her stomach as she walks the corridors to his chambers. Upon entering, she finds the Lord Commander occupying the same chair he had the night before. He regards her clothing with amusement. “Were you already abed?”

Even though the long folds of her robe are held together by a knotted tassel in the front, her hands want to pull the fabric tighter around her, wishing his gaze could not so easily pierce her skin, as if she is laid bare before him. 

He is wearing the same dark tunic he wore the night before, the laces again untied, showing the same muscled slice of his bare chest. The only difference this evening is his breeches are tan, and with the way he is sitting, the bulge between his legs feels as if it is directed towards her. 

“I asked you a question, Tarth.” His words rumble in his throat, deep, almost a growl. 

“I was in my room, but I was not asleep, Ser--Lord Commander.” She is tempted to ask whether he will always request her so late, but is afraid of his response. 

“You took the black this evening.” Brienne nods. “And you already know you will be serving as my personal steward. Do you know what your duties will be?” 

Her gaze falls to his lap just as he begins to inch forward in the chair. She bites her lip and shakes her head. “No,” she manages in a hushed whisper. 

He places a hand on his knee, the upper half of his body leaning towards her. “You will serve me when I am at Castle Black.” Brienne imagines how he might react if she was on her knees between his legs. If he would lean back, eyes closed, or if he would watch her, a gentle but guiding hand on the back of her head. Her eyes snap back to his face. “But as Lord Commander, I do go out ranging and I travel to the other castles along the Wall.” She wonders what he smells like, how he would taste. “You will accompany me on my travels. Does that sound suitable?” 

There is the familiar heat between her legs, making her shift where she stands. “Yes,” she replies. “That sounds more than suitable. Thank you, Lord Commander.” 

He gestures to the plate which is on the table beside him. “Take this down to the kitchens.” Her cheeks flame with blush. She does not want to step one foot towards him for fear of him being able to read her thoughts. But she does, those green eyes boring into her. She places the fork and knife on the plate, picking it up with her left hand. The wooden legs of his chair scrape across the floor, the heat of his body grows closer. “Did you genuinely believe,” he asks, the rumble in his throat again, deliberately stretching out his words. “I was going to tell you to get on your knees and ask you to take my cock in your mouth?”

Her breath stutters, her whole body burning with shame. “I-”

His laugh is mocking and derisive. Her blood boils, thinks of shoving the knife on the plate into the soft flesh of his thigh. “That will be all for tonight,” he sneers.

She is nearly to the door when she remembers this is her duty. She stops, spinning on her heel. Brienne cannot look at him, instead maintaining eye contact with the furthest wall. “Do you desire me to arrive at a certain time in the morning?” 

“I do desire you.” His voice is low, strained and she glances over at him, startled. He continues on as if he said nothing, but she catches the way his eyes sparkle in the candlelight. “If you arrive after the first meal that shall be suitable. I will let you know if I need you before then.” Brienne gives him a curt nod, unable to do much more than carry herself out of the room. 

_Get on your knees._


	3. sparring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A week goes by, Brienne longing to practice, missing the weight of a sword in her hand and the sweet pain in her muscles. One evening, requesting her presence in his chambers, he inquires about it. “You have been absent from the yard. Have you forgotten my offer?” 
> 
> She shakes her head, unable to think of an apt excuse. 
> 
> “You’ve been avoiding me then?” He asks, sitting back in his chair, an eyebrow arching as he strokes the stubble along his jaw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am genuinely floored by all the positive comments so far. This chapter is a little bit more subdued, but things will heat up soon enough.

Her duties as steward are not as awful as she imagined. She is allowed into some meetings with the Lord Commander and his advisors, and she is able to follow along, due to time spent in her father’s small counsel chambers. 

Many hours of the day are spent together, and Brienne learns it is safer not to develop a routine of her own, because whenever she settles into an activity, she is disrupted by his summons. He obviously takes perverse pleasure from her being at his beck and call. Her distaste for him flares in certain moments, quells in others. Her fantasies have not diminished.

After her first encounter with him in the training yard, she avoids the place. As easily provoked as she is by him, she does not need him stoking her anger (or desire) so early in the day. 

A week goes by, Brienne longing to practice, missing the weight of a sword in her hand and the sweet pain in her muscles. One evening, requesting her presence in his chambers, he inquires about it. “You have been absent from the yard. Have you forgotten my offer?” 

She shakes her head, unable to think of an apt excuse. 

“You’ve been avoiding me then?” He asks, sitting back in his chair, an eyebrow arching as he strokes the stubble along his jaw. 

“No, of course not. I only-” 

The Lord Commander cuts her off, his voice low but sharp. “Then I request your presence on the morrow. You will no longer deny me.” He stands suddenly, adjusting his breeches. The movement is over in a split second, but leaves her gulping for air, her imagination reeling. Both of them in the chair, her on top, hips rolling against his.

His demand causes her to appear the next morning in the yard and the morning after that. They have practiced together now for several weeks. There is an unspoken tentative truce here, their usual dance contained to the striking of swords between them. 

And yet she is embarrassed to find his cries while sparring unfurl something primal within her. In those moments, it is hard to focus on her strategy, instead becoming absorbed in the way his body moves, hips rotating towards her, the muscles in his shoulders rippling, or the way his tunic clings to his sweat-soaked body. 

When she lets him advance on her too easily today, he stops, regarding her suspiciously. “Sometimes your mind is elsewhere, Lady Brienne.” He’s started calling her this in the yard, even after she corrected him. 

_I am not a Lady, Lord Commander. Not anymore._

_Ah, but you were. A highborn lady. One who prefers swords._

Brienne is uncertain if he uses the title as a slight or if he’s reverting to his former courtesies as a way to escape, but she chooses not to argue with him over it, leaving those battles for other things. “I’m sorry, Lord Commander.” The apology is rote. She is busy trying to stifle her thoughts, fearing his uncanny ability to see through her.

“Where do you go?” 

Surprised by his interest, she glances up to find his eyes have softened slightly. “Anywhere that is not here,” Brienne admits. 

He lets out a rueful laugh, tracing the tip of the tourney sword in the dirt. “I used to do the same when I was young.” _He is still young_. Handsome. And dangerous. 

“Did you ever think about running away?” 

Jaime’s gaze snaps up from the dirt. “If you are considering deserting, it is not wise to tell your Lord Commander of your plans.” His tone is teasing, his eyes flash with mirth, yet there is something darker underneath. 

“I am not _planning_ anything.” She pushes back, still sparring. “Did you never consider it? Escaping?”

“Certainly. We all have,” he says easily, his shoulders shrugging. “Where would you go?” 

_Home_ , she wants to say. “Somewhere very far. To the East.” Brienne had grown up hearing tales of pirate lords in the Stepstones. The Free Cities seemed as near to her as the Seven Kingdoms.

“We could be killed for even discussing it.” It is a challenge, an exaggerated truth, to see if she balks or frightens. 

Brienne does not waver. “And you, where would you go?” 

“Have you ever heard of Ser Jorah Mormont?” 

She frowns. “The Brother here?” Jeor Mormont is a Ranger, but he is out Beyond the Wall. 

“No, Ser Jorah is his son,” he replies, shaking his head. “I faced him in a tourney years ago. He was to be Lord of Bear Island, but he had accrued debts. In order to pay off those debts, he sold slaves. When honorable Lord Eddard Stark found out,” his words are biting, and Brienne remembers it was Lord Eddard who condemned Jaime to the Wall. “He sentenced Mormont to death, only when Stark arrived on Bear Island, he found the man had fled. He is rumored to have traveled to the Free Cities, Volantis, or perhaps made a home in Lys or Braavos.” He takes a deep breath and his eyes burn into hers. “He lives as an exile and perhaps that is the best we can hope for in this place.” 

“But you stayed. You are serving your sentence.” Brienne points out, confused. Very few of the men had chosen to be here, she knew that much, but as Lord Commander, he had it better than most. 

He laughs bitterly. “You think I am honorable for staying? I would rather be in Lys, surrounded by beautiful women.” He cocks his head to the side, studying her. “Do you think me so honorable now?” 

He is trying to provoke her. “I am not so honorable either,” she fumes. 

“Oh, but you are.” A salacious smile pulls at his face. “And innocent, at that.” 

Brienne starts to object, but he steps close, as if they are sparring again. The heat of their bodies mixing together makes her shudder with anticipation. She searches his face, expecting to see a devilish glint in his eyes, instead shocked by the softness there. Before she can react, his fingertips are sliding across her skin, his calloused palm gently cupping her cheek, as his thumb traces slowly over her bottom lip. Her breath stutters, lips parting. Needing, aching to taste him. But as quickly as his touch came, it was gone. He drops his hand from her face and walks away without another word, leaving her in the training yard, her whole body quaking with want. 


	4. kingslayer's whore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Can’t you see how it might look unfair to everyone else? I am here with you everyday.” She wants to stop speaking about this and raises her sword, as if she means to attack. Brienne walks steadily towards him, expecting him to get the hint and lift his sword to start their session together. But Jaime allows her to draw close enough that the wooden blade is pointed at his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I am overwhelmed by the response to this. I promise I will reply to everyone's comments, many of which have made me laugh out loud. This is a bit of lead up to the next chapter, which will be quite a bit longer, I hope. Enjoy!

He says nothing else about the moment in the training yard and neither does she, only thinks of it when she’s alone in her room, fingertips trailing along her lower lip.

Their morning sparring sessions are not a well-kept secret, as it turns out. Edd Tollett questions her, saying he has seen them practicing, and Jon Snow shows interest as well. This continues, with brothers she has never met approaching her and asking how she received an audience with the Lord Commander. Most did not know she was his personal steward. Within a week’s time, the Great Hall seems to be buzzing about her training with the Lord Commander. During the evening meal, she sits with Jon Snow, Edd Tollett, and Samwell Tarly. A brother with boils on his face wanders towards the table, the whisper coming over her shoulder as he passes by: _Kingslayer’s whore_. Her cheeks burn, but Sam’s face goes red, even more flustered over the incident than Brienne. Jon and Edd tell her to pay the brother, Chett, no mind. She finishes her meal and then excuses herself. 

Brienne knows she has not done anything wrong, but somehow, deeply, she feels as if she has. 

  
She ignored the men in Renly’s camp at first and it only made everything worse. Dropping down onto her bed with a sigh, she weighs her options. The morning sparring sessions have improved her footwork, her speed. She would hate to give them up. The Night’s Watch is a meritocracy, but she can understand how it might look to the other men: she has the Lord Commander’s ear, his favor. As much as she feels it’s her duty to tell the Lord Commander about the incident, she does not wish to do so.

But the next morning in the courtyard, he takes one look at her and his brow furrows, his eyes darken. “What happened?” 

She shakes her head, striding past him, hoping he will let her get away with it. She stretches and rolls out her muscles before brandishing her tourney sword. 

“Brienne.” Her given name in his mouth always makes her spine tingle with warmth. 

“Everyone knows about us. About this,” she quickly corrects, gesturing to the yard. 

“So?” He adjusts his grip on the sword. “I am the Lord Commander, I do what I will.” The confidence in his tone replaces the concern from a moment before. He does not do well with anyone challenging him. How such a mercurial man ended up a leader, she will never know. 

Brienne sighs, not wanting to spell it out for him. Pausing, she searches the barbican overlooking the courtyard to make sure no one else is awake and watching them. “You may do what you wish,” she replies, lowering her voice. “But they are my peers, and I am not sure I can continue coming here.” 

“Why not?” His eyes flash and he almost looks hurt.

“Can’t you see how it might look unfair to everyone else? I am here with you everyday.” She wants to stop speaking about this and raises her sword, as if she means to attack. Brienne walks steadily towards him, expecting him to get the hint and lift his sword to start their session together. But Jaime allows her to draw close enough that the wooden blade is pointed at his throat. He tosses his sword into the dirt near her feet and lifts his hands on either side of his shoulders in a surrender. She stops, sword still raised, holding her stance for a long moment, enjoying him in this vulnerable position. 

“So they are _jealous_ of you?” His voice grips onto the word jealous, as if he is savoring it in his mouth, tone low and gravelly. How he is able to look so cocksure when he’s surrendering infuriates her, and she finally releases from her position, dropping her sword to her side. But her eyes stay on him, drawn to the Lord Commander’s throat bobbing as he swallows. 

The familiar aching want builds in her stomach, and she turns away from him then. “I don’t know. I don’t want to speak of it any further.” 

His quick steps come up behind her and his hand grabs her wrist, directing her to turn into him. Her tourney sword sails out of her other hand across the dirt. Their thighs are pressing together. He is so close she can make out flecks of gold in among the green iris. His eyes flick to her mouth. “Perhaps _I_ do,” he emphasizes, before letting her go. “If there is a problem among my men, then I should know about it.” 

Brienne cannot stop her whole body from shaking. It is a cold morning, so at least there is that. She leans over to pick up the wooden blade from where it had fallen. “I don’t wish for your protection, Lord Commander,” she retorts stubbornly, wishing the sword in her hand was steel. She is fuming, more so now than she was last night when Chett called her Kingslayer’s whore. 

“It is not a choice, Tarth.” He enunciates each word sharply. “It is my duty. Now tell me what happened.” 

“I’ll handle it myself,” she replies stubbornly. “If you are not interested in practicing, I will go back to my room. I have chores to do before I attend to your chambers.” Brienne heads across the yard and he does not say anything to stop her. 


	5. the armory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a tug at her sleeve and the Lord Commander is beside her. Her stomach swoops as he pulls her away from the others, towards the armory. 
> 
> “What are you doing?” she hisses, not even sure why she is following him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Jaime would say, "Is it hot in here?" Maybe have some water nearby.

Brienne still wakes early the next morning, but does not meet the Lord Commander in the yard. She’s changing from her nightclothes when a knock sounds on her door. “Give me a moment,” she replies, assuming it’s a summons to his chambers, despite their previous agreement that she would not be called until after the first meal. She has barely slipped a fresh tunic over her head when her door opens. Quickly pulling the fabric down over her body, she gives a searing look to the person who just burst in her door, only to have her gaze be met with green eyes. 

He looks as stunned as she feels, but shows no discomfort, instead drawing his eyes slowly down her frame, the same as he had when she first arrived.   
“What in all seven hells?” she scowls, advancing towards him as if she means to hit or shove him. Her fists clench at her sides, stopping herself short. “Did you not hear me ask you to wait? You cannot waltz into my room!” 

“I would not have burst in here if you had told me what happened between you and the Brothers,” he bites back. “I had to find out from the Lord Steward!” 

“Oh.” Brienne feels as if she’s the one who’s been punched. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

Her gaze drops to the floor. She was embarrassed, but she had experienced embarrassment before and survived. This was different. She felt guilty. Ever since she arrived and met the Lord Commander, she’s imagined herself in all sorts of situations with him. So wasn’t she in essence what this man had called her? She could scarcely deny it’s what she wanted. Something Margaery once told her pops into her head: _It’s normal to have desires, Lady Brienne_. 

“No one should treat you that way.” His tone is as soft as she’s ever heard it. She glimpses a fleeting moment of kindness cross his features. 

“I _told_ you I wanted to handle it on my own,” Brienne replies, surprised by the frustration in her voice. Getting called a whore, having to insist that she does not need his help, all of this has unlocked a new level of anger within her. 

“And it’s _my_ job to protect you!” Her room is small, much smaller than his chambers. Their annoyance with each other has caused them to step closer as they argued, and now they are nearly nose to nose, chests heaving. 

“So you would do the same if Jon or Sam came to you and said one of the other brothers called them a whore?” She shakes her head, knowing it would play out much differently. Brienne steps back, folding her arms defensively across her stomach. 

The Lord Commander opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again, his jaw clenching. It’s the only time she’s seen him speechless. It is a hollow victory. “We are holding a tournament this weekend. Not an official one, but I thought it might boost morale,” he informs her before he leaves. 

Brienne drops down onto her bed, punching the mattress. 

*

There is a nervous excitement as the Brothers and Brienne walk out to the yard. For the tournament, they are divided into three teams based on their duties: Stewards, Builders, and Rangers. Although the Rangers might boast the best fighters, all members of the Night’s Watch have to go through basic training, as they are expected to defend the Wall from wildlings and the Others.

The groups are encouraged to pick their strongest fighters in an effort to advance the farthest. Each competitor will face two opponents, one from each group. (In Brienne’s case, a Builder and a Ranger.) If someone loses, they are out, thus whittling the field down quickly. If someone wins both bouts, they will advance to the next round, where they will once again fight an opponent from each group. 

Brienne is selected by Sam as one of the Stewards’ fighters, along with nine others. Her first opponent is a burly, tall man with a red beard from the Builders. The fight is long, Brienne methodical in her attacks as always, but she is surprised the man does not charge more often. He might be able to overpower her with his large frame. He does try, once or twice, but she dodges his attacks, grateful to the early morning sparring sessions for making her more nimble on her feet. 

The Lord Commander has been watching each bout from the balcony overlooking the yard. Sometimes, she can sense the burn of his gaze on her. Chett, the man who called her Kingslayer’s whore, loses badly to Jon Snow in the first round of the tourney. Brienne nearly looks up at the Lord Commander then, wondering what his expression might communicate. 

She has to wait through several rounds of her teammates’ fights before going up against a Ranger, only to find herself facing off with Jon’s friend Edd. It seems an unfair matchup as he is quite a bit shorter than she. But he is fast, Brienne quickly finds out, knowing if she can draw out the fight, he will tire and she can succeed. It’s exactly what happens. By the end of it, though, even she can feel herself slowing. Her footwork is not as sharp as it should be. The Lord Commander likely taking notice. 

They break for a meal, and in the afternoon, Brienne fights another Builder. Her muscles feel as if they are on fire, and she doubts she will be able to defeat another opponent. She has made it nearly to the last round of bouts, only to find she is facing Jon Snow. They have seen each other in training enough to know the other’s moves fairly well. There is a moment where she nearly has him, but her footwork trips her up, and her momentum comes to a crashing halt, as she sprawls across the ground, Jon standing over her victorious. He smiles, reaching for her hand, and he compliments her as he helps her up. She is frustrated by the loss, but gracious in defeat, and it makes her grateful for his companionship. Life at Castle Black would feel very lonely without him, Edd, and Sam. 

After her loss to Jon, she peels off her doublet, the sweat which has soaked through to her tunic cooling rapidly in the cold air. She stands on the edge of the crowd, trying to catch her breath. There is a tug at her sleeve and the Lord Commander is beside her. Her stomach swoops as he pulls her away from the others, towards the armory. 

“What are you doing?” she hisses, not even sure why she is following him. 

His fingers lock onto her elbow. “Stop being so stubborn and come here.” He steers her quickly inside the armory. Brienne leans against the wall, still breathless from her bouts, and now from his proximity. He steps closer, his knee nudging between her legs. Her blood is rushing in her ears, her muscles still singing from fighting. 

The Lord Commander’s eyes travel over her hair curling around her face, her tunic clinging to her body. He licks his lips. “Gods, I knew you were strong.” His deep voice rumbles through his chest before dropping into a quiet, but stern command. “Show me how strong.” 

Momentarily, she’s grateful that her face goes blotchy and red after a fight, otherwise she would be blushing terribly. She hesitates before taking a step into him, and pauses, relishing in the heat from their bodies, their legs tangling together, and the awe in Jaime’s eyes. Brienne pushes a hand square into his chest. She could make this quick, if she wanted, but she means to tease him. 

Stepping forward, she exerts enough pressure to make him step backwards. His eyes flare and by the time she has him pressed against the wall on the other side of the armory, there is pure hunger in his eyes. He wants to devour her. 

Her hand still rests in the center of his chest and he reaches up, taking her wrist in both of his hands. Before she has time to process any of it, he spins her around, facing the wall she had him against a moment before. His hands pin her arms by her sides, and he presses his chest into her back, warm, and smelling of spice and sweat. 

Brienne should be burning with distaste, should push him away. She longs to tell him he can’t control her this way, but her animalistic side wants him to unlace her breeches and fuck her right here, where anyone could walk in and see. 

The entire Night’s Watch is mere steps away and she cannot make a sound. 

His hips and groin grind against her ass, and she loses all control, letting out a moan. He releases one of her arms, his hand coming up to cover her mouth. “Shhh,” he warns. “Do you want me like this?” Again, he presses into her backside and Brienne nearly bites down onto the warm flesh of his palm to keep from whimpering. He releases his hand, but instead his thumb whispers along her jaw and his fingertips trace the long line of her neck. “Or do you wish me to go slow?” His hands shift down her body, gripping her hips, every fingertip a claim. 

“Yes,” she manages to say, her voice breathy and low. “I want you.” 

“Which. Way.” He demands, tugging at her hips for emphasis. He is hard, nearly throbbing against her, and it makes her want him all the more. No one has ever considered her worthy of desire. “Which way, Brienne. Answer me.” 

Her brain can’t process anything other than the white heat of him pressed against her, his hands on her hips, his breath against her ear. This time, as her hips roll into his, it’s of her own accord. “You feel so good,” she whispers. Jaime’s breath in her ear stutters, and he lets out a sharp gasp. A powerful feeling overtakes her, and she continues to move her hips against his. “Do you want me?” 

“ _Yes_.” 


	6. his chambers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It felt like a different person possessed her in the armory, and unable to recreate the same rush of power she felt only a short time ago, she whispers, “Do you want me?” 
> 
> His eyes fall closed as he hisses his reply, “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a mention in a previous chapter about Brienne learning seduction techniques via her time at Highgarden. Also, let's assume our girl knows a little about her own pleasure.

“We cannot do this,” he murmurs. Brienne nearly laughs, because he has already gotten down on his knees and her hand is currently wrapped around his cock. “We cannot,” he repeats. “It’s against the Night’s Watch orders.” 

She notes the seriousness in his eyes then, his furrowed brow. “We already are,” she answers, her voice falling to a husky whisper, continuing to stroke him.

“This is all it will be. You have to understand that.” 

*

_“Do you want me?”_

_“Yes.”_

A gasp slips out of her at his confession. Brienne arches back against him, a pleased sound vibrating through his throat, his hands clutching tighter at her hips. She knows they should stop, but it feels so good, every part of her alive, even more so than when she is sparring. 

He slides a palm down her thigh, and it’s enough to make her writhe against him. With his other hand, he pulls at her tunic, his hot, wet mouth closing over her shoulder. The scruff on his chin prickles along her skin, making her suck in a breath over her teeth. “They’re going to need me shortly,” he murmurs, inching his lips along her skin, before nipping at her neck. She’s already forgotten about the tourney. He will have to announce the winner. “Meet me in my chambers,” he commands, his warm breath tickling her ear, and before he moves away, he presses the length of his body into hers one last time.

In the doorway of the armory, the Lord Commander turns back to her, a wicked grin sliding across his face. After he’s gone, Brienne leans against the wall, her chest heaving, every part of her overstimulated and burning with desire. 

*

When she arrives at his rooms, her nerves almost get the better of her. The Lord Commander opens the door, as if sensing her presence. “Close the door and come here.” She obeys his orders, only to have him press her up against the door. He wears an easy, confident smile, as if he seduces women often, but his eyes search her face, informing Brienne she is not the only one feeling nervous. His knee wedges itself between her legs again and they are back in the armory. 

“Say it.” His voice curls low in the back of his throat as he demands, “Ask me what you did earlier.” There is a flood of heat in between her legs, making her squirm under his gaze as she had those first few weeks here. 

It felt like a different person possessed her in the armory, and unable to recreate the same rush of power she felt only a short time ago, she whispers, “Do you want me?” 

His eyes fall closed as he hisses his reply, “Yes.” 

They are frantic. Grappling for each other. Her hands on his doublet, while his are at her waist, fumbling with her laces. She lifts the thick velvet over his head and groans her disapproval to find he is wearing a thin tunic underneath.

He pauses his movements, watching her slowly untuck and pull the fabric out of the waist of his breeches. Brienne bites her lip, her throat so thick from holding her breath that she can scarcely swallow. Waiting patiently for her to disrobe him, he smooths his knuckles across her clavicle. She lets out a soft sigh, her skin jumping under his touch, eyes flickering up to his. 

She maintains her gaze as ever so slowly, she slides her hand under the edge of his tunic and up the hardened planes of his stomach until it is resting in the center of his chest, the same as the armory. Only now she can feel the rhythm of his heartbeat under her fingertips. 

His mouth crashes against hers so quickly their teeth nearly knock together, Brienne making a noise in the back of her throat. At first his lips press against hers, hard and unyielding. The light growth of a beard on his chin creates friction along her skin, sending a thrill up her spine. His thumb makes quick short strokes along her jaw, a hint for her to relax, and when she opens her mouth to his, everything becomes soft and gentle. Brienne forgets she does not know what she’s doing, because _he_ is kissing her, pressing a hand tightly into the small of her back in order to draw her nearer. He lavishes attention along her lower lip, eliciting soft sounds from her, and their kisses growing longer and more heated.

Dragging her hips towards him, his fingers resume their work on her laces. She scarcely has a moment to breathe before he is pulling her pants down her legs. An eyebrow cocked at her, he presses her up the door again, before dropping down to his knees in front of her. “No,” she gasps, but then his mouth is buried in her cunt. Brienne can only lean back against the door, stars in her eyes. He grips her legs, trying to keep her still. His right hand runs up the back of her thigh, until the tips of his fingers are pressed into the round of her ass. 

Every time his tongue moves against her, it feels as if all her nerve endings are bursting. A deep cry erupts from her and he grips her thighs tighter, his tongue slowing for a minute, before speeding up again. _Oh gods._ Her head tips back, whimpering, her hands falling to his hair. She is not going to survive this. Her mouth is opening and she has no idea what sounds are falling out: his name, moans, a string of expletives. Brienne glances down at Jaime, half buried in her, and his eyes look like they are smiling. She wants to slap him, but instead focuses on the soft way his scruff grazes against her thighs. 

Her fingertips scrabble at his hair, sometimes pulling at it with her fists when he’s close to the spot she didn’t even know she needed him to reach. He is so damn good at this, drawing her to the edge, and then softening. He keeps repeating this process, coaxing her, teasing her until she might explode. “Fuck,” she whimpers against him, her thighs clenching tighter against his head as his tongue goes deeper. His right hand grips her leg as he strains for something he can’t quite reach, pleasure pulsing out of her every pore. After awhile, he drags his mouth away, Brienne making a protesting noise. His face is wet from her, his pupils wide and dark. 

He shakily stands before directing her across the room and pushing her back on the bed. “I’m not done with you yet,” he hisses in her ear. He gets down onto his knees again, and since her breeches are tangled around her feet, he slips them off over her ankles, before placing her legs over his shoulders and pressing his mouth to her again. She cries out, writhing against him, and he murmurs his approval. His movements are more insistent now, building an even deeper pressure, her breaths growing sharp and short. He reaches up, squeezing her hip, as if telling her to release. She lets out a low cry. He nudges further into her, using his nose, as his tongue works at her clit. Her upper body raises up off the bed in shock, her hands fisting in his hair again, a moan on her lips.

“Yes, yes, right there, please.” The words tumble out of her mouth and her thighs are clenching around his head and she is falling, tumbling. Everything turning into a thousand tiny pinpricks of pleasure and light as her hips buck and roll against his face. She lies still for a long moment, chest heaving. 

Jaime gets to his feet, standing between her legs. “Gods, Brienne.” He intones, the gravel in his voice settling into her spine. 

As with the nightshirts she has seen him in before, the thin undershirt he is wearing has its laces undone, showing a slice of his chest. Tan, somehow, even in the middle of snow and biting cold. If he had not ended up here, he would be a knight they sing songs about. The type of man who would never look at her twice. Yet he is standing over her, staring at her with an insatiable look in his eye.

Sitting up, her head swims, her ears ringing. He grabs her hand, helping her to her feet in front of him, and brings his mouth to hers for a searing kiss. Brienne can taste herself on him and he makes a noise of assent in his throat. 

A hunger rises up in her. She slips her hands underneath his tunic, the Lord Commander nipping at her mouth in response. Revels in the heat of his skin underneath her palms for a moment before she lifts the fabric over his head. 

Brienne nearly whimpers. His body looks like it was chiseled from marble. Sculpted arms and shoulders from training with swords. Her eyes skim over the muscled planes of his broad upper body, the definition of his abdomen. Carved lines she longs to trace with her fingers, her tongue. The deep hollow of his throat pulls attention to the long line running down his chest, dividing his abs, all the way to the small patch of hair beneath his navel. A perfectly marked path to his cock, the outline of which she can see through his breeches. _Fuck._

Her eyes flick up to his, a brilliant, blinding green, ensnaring her. “Do you need me to command you, Lady Brienne?” The way his voice deepens at the end of her name is enough to make her drop to her knees, same as he had minutes before. The place between her thighs is pulsing with an aching heat all over again. 

She nods, but within the same beat, steps towards him, dipping her head to press her tongue to the hollow below his throat, teeth nipping at the thin skin there, making him breathe in sharply, his fingers tugging at her tunic. Her fingertips trace over the raised skin of a scar to the left, above his heart, before trailing her hand down through the sparse patch of hair covering his chest, down, down over the sculpted lines of his abs to edge along his breeches. “Command me,” she says slowly. This ache, this desire, this want has curled in her chest for months, and she needs the release. Perilously close to dropping to her knees, she glances up at him again. He looks as if the breath has been knocked out of him, his eyes hooded, and he sucks in his cheeks for a second, trying to compose himself. 

“Untie my laces.” His voice is firm, sending a thrill up her spine. She deftly undoes them, but when she starts to shift his breeches down his hips, his hands cover her own, stopping her. “I did not instruct you to do anything more than untie my laces.” His fingers press firmly into her wrists, heat surging through her. He waits a long moment. “Slip your hand inside.” She does as she’s told. Her fingers brush lower. She wants to wrap her fingers around him, but his voice rings out, “Stop.” He runs a soft hand through her hair, before drawing his mouth close to her ear, whispering, “Are you going to beg me?” 

Her legs quake, craving him. “Please,” she says, watching his reaction. He nods, neediness shining in his eyes. “I want to serve you.” Her tone rings clearer now, bolder. He bites his lip, his head tipping back in bliss. “Lord Commander.” 

His eyes fly open at that, tongue wetting his lower lip. “Say my name.” 

“Jaime.” She tests it, admiring how easily it slides across her tongue. Then again, more insistent, “ _Jaime_.” 

“Yes,” he replies, nodding, encouraging, a hand running through her hair again. “Touch me,” Jaime intones, voice choked. He shudders as her fingers wrap around him and gently begin to stroke his shaft. Brienne pushes his breeches down with her other hand. He braces himself against her, a hand stilling at the back of her neck, fingertips brushing into her hair. She listens to his breathing, the sounds in the back of his throat as her hand moves. “Faster,” he commands. She obeys, desire pulsing through her with every stroke. It does not take long before he is thrusting into her hand. His hold at her neck has grown tighter, eyes closed, and his voice sounds fevered when he says, “We cannot do this.” Brienne nearly laughs, because he has already gotten down on his knees and her hand is currently wrapped around his cock, so close to making him come. “We cannot,” he repeats, nearly panting against her. “It’s against the Night’s Watch orders.” 

She notes the seriousness in his eyes, his furrowed brow. “We already are,” she answers, her voice falling to a husky whisper, continuing to stroke him.

“This is all it will ever be. You have to understand that.” 

Brienne stops her movements, reaching down to fetch her breeches, and pulling them up her legs. Her whole body is shaking with anger when his hand lands on top of hers. “What are you doing?”

“You said we can’t.” Fury flashes across his face, making her legs quiver. 

“Brienne,” he warns. He is erect, the fabric of his breeches tented. She will gladly leave him aching for release. 

“If you wish me to keep my oaths, then I should leave.” The hunger on his face drives her mad. It’s clear he wants her as much as she does him, and he should not have brought this up now, when they have already started. Having grown used to practicing patience while sparring, she is able to display some modicum of restraint and hopes it will win her this bout. Turning her back on him, she steps towards the door. His hand clamps over her wrist as quick as lightning striking and yanks her back into him. 

“Don’t try me.” His voice is a growl, his bare chest heaving, the white heat of his cock pressing into her hip. The combined effect of his words and the look on his face makes her body curve inwards, as if her muscles have collapsed, her bones no longer strong enough to hold her upright. She braces herself against his chest. Jaime quickly sweeps his arm behind her knees and picks her up. She marvels at the ease with which he carries her. He settles her on the table, her legs dangling over the side, their length reaching all the way to the floor. “I need you.” It is a desperate plea, one which twists at Brienne’s stomach unexpectedly, for there is more than desire laced within it. 

He determinedly unlaces her breeches again, slowly pulling them out from under her, both of them letting out soft moans as he touches her. She can scarcely move, can barely think, her head falling back, his teeth nipping at the soft skin of her neck. But she finds a small moment of control and reaches for him, pushing his breeches down impatiently, a guttural groan echoing from him. It makes her feel powerful to look him in the eye as they touch each other. 

“Yes,” he grits out. “You’re so good, Brienne..” He leans into her, his fingers slowing against her, but Brienne doesn’t care. His breath hitches and stutters under her hand. “So strong.” Jaime drops his head back, exposing the hollow of his throat. She leans forward, pressing her mouth to it again, making him gasp. Her eyes travel down the lean muscles of his chest and the yearning inside her feels like it can be quenched in only one way. 

“Stop,” she tells him, his eyes flashing with surprise, but he listens, withdrawing his hand. “I need…” she breaks off, standing up from the table and sliding down onto the floor. 

“Fuck,” he chokes out. She takes him in her mouth, her eyes closing in pleasure. He runs his hands through her hair. He is totally in her control, she realizes, and an unbridled feeling of power washes over her, watching as she makes him come undone. His hand clutches at the back of her head as he thrusts into her mouth, Brienne moaning. As her name falls from his lips, his legs shake, his grunts and groans slow to stuttering breaths, and his fingers run softly through her hair as he winds down. She pops him out of her mouth and stands, Jaime grabbing her hips, making lazy circles on her skin with his fingertips as they stand in each other’s arms, swaying together as he catches his breath. 

They move to the bed, his breathing still heavy as he lies on his side next to her. Brienne skims her fingers along his jawline, him fairly humming underneath her. “Now is when you ask me to do your bidding,” he jokes, tossing a quick wink at her. 

“You said earlier-” Jaime cuts her off with a kiss. 

“And I meant it.” His fingertips trail along her skin, all sweetness and light, but his face is sad, full of regret. “For one, I am your superior. If anyone found out about us, it would be a danger to us both.”

Later, the reality of his words will hit her at their full weight, startle her that they chose lust, allowing it to drive them into jeopardy. “A danger” at the Wall meant punishment, usually death. But for now, she nods, resigned that this is their only time together. 

“We have tonight,” he says, his voice dipping low. “Tell me what you desire, Lady Brienne.” 


	7. a sword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is as if they do not know each other at all. There is no acknowledgement. No fleeting softness on his face. She would prefer him to treat her harshly. Yet every time she is in his chambers, her fingers itch to touch him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tad bit of angst in this one.

Over the next week, they speak little. 

When Brienne was found guilty of killing Renly and sentenced to the Wall, it felt like being punished to all Seven hells. But somehow, this is worse. 

Whenever they see each other, their greetings are formal. Hollow. “Lord Commander.” 

“Tarth.” 

It is as if they do not know each other at all. There is no acknowledgement. No fleeting softness on his face. She would prefer him to treat her harshly. At least she would understand his irritation. She cannot abide this. 

Yet every time she is in his chambers, her fingers itch to touch him. His lengthening beard reminds her of his face pressed between her thighs. 

It is not the first time that she has wanted a man she could not have. When she is not carrying out her duties as steward, she keeps herself busy. Begins spending more time with Sam and Jon. Although she has never had much use for religion, new or old, she begins visiting the Godswood in the mornings. It is quiet there. Peaceful. Brienne reads or polishes her sword, the one her father gave to her before she left for the mainland. Her hand sometimes aches for a mace or a morningstar. Weapons she used to know. She has seen archery targets in the courtyard and while she was never much good with a bow and arrow, she has time now. 

Some nights she wakes with the familiar aching pulse between her legs. 

*

_“Tell me what you desire, Lady Brienne.”_

Her mind flies through all the various scenarios she has imagined in the weeks since she started as his steward. Feeling unexpectedly shy under his gaze, blush burns at her cheeks as he studies her, an eyebrow lifting. 

“I was right. Innocence,” Jaime laughs, cupping her cheek gently in his palm and kissing her. 

In their hurry earlier, her tunic was never added to the pile of garments on the floor. He takes care of that now, drawing it up her stomach and lifting it from her shoulders. His scruff tickles along her skin as he presses kisses across her collarbone. Brienne tilts her head back, exposing the long line of her neck, giving Jaime yet another place to focus attention. Her fingers slide into the hair at the nape of his neck as she lets out a soft sigh. He shifts his body lower, tongue momentarily distracted by her sternum, the thump of her heartbeat so close to where his head is bowed. Then his hot mouth is on her breast, her murmured assent deep and raspy in her chest. Her short nails digging into his shoulders spurns him on. He nips and sucks, softly gnawing at the flesh of her breasts until she yelps. “Jaime,” she murmurs, as he pauses a moment to take her in, spread out beneath him. Her whole chest is spotted with blush, her nipples taut and flushed rose. 

She pulls him into a bruising kiss. A smug smile tugs at his face as he nestles beside her, his hands still skimming over her breasts, his thumb circling her nipples. She whispers something in his ear and a low groan reverberates through his chest. “You’re trying to kill me.” 

“You said whatever I desire,” she protests, a shy smile spreading across her face. 

“Mmm, so I did,” he replies dryly, but grins wickedly at her. “Roll over.” 

Brienne turns onto her side, facing away from him, and he shifts closer, pressing into her back as he had in the armory, a soft whimper falling from her lips already. His hand on her waist, he rolls his hips against hers, and she presses back against him, his cock momentarily caught in the line of her ass, making both of them gasp. Jaime grips her hip briefly, before his fingers are threading through the patch of hair between her legs, and lightly touches her. She grinds against him again, encouraging him to continue, to move. He is driving her crazy and he knows it. Brienne writhes, digging her hips down into his hand. “Please,” she begs, her voice low and guttural. “ _Jaime._ ” 

He obeys her then, his fingers sliding and stroking her, her body shuddering under his touch. She is almost embarrassed of her need for him, but Jaime has only mirrored her desire, and the thought slips free from her head, instead concentrating on the movement of his fingers, the warmth of his body against hers. He circles his fingers lazily around her clit as he presses his mouth to the curve of her neck, nipping at the skin there as he continues to drive her to the brink. Jaime’s voice is steady in her ear, “Not yet.” Her legs quiver and quake against his hand, her moans sucking the air from her lungs until she can stand it no longer. 

His cock is throbbing against her and she is so wound up, she nearly screams. Her back goes cold for a second, only to realize he has moved away and is pressing her flat against the mattress, spreading her legs as he enters her, both of them letting out cries of pleasure. She is caught off guard by his gentleness, his fingertips trace along her cheek before he brings his lips to hers and begins to move inside her. Brienne wraps an arm around his neck and a shy smile softens his face for a moment. Her hips move with his, eliciting a moan from him, his fingers tangling in her hair. Jaime places his hand behind her knee, drawing her leg up around his hip as he thrusts deeper. “You feel so good,” he murmurs against her skin, gooseflesh breaking out along her arms. Brienne has not told him he is the first man she has been with, but assumes he knows. 

Quickening his pace, his eyes concentrate on her, as if he’s checking to make sure he isn’t hurting her. She nods, encouraging him to go faster. Her fingers slide into his hair, mapping out every brush of his body against hers, noting his soft grunts, the way his eyelids flutter closed, and for a moment, only a moment, he is vulnerable as he falls apart on top of her. 

*

One night, there is a soft knock at her door. When she opens it, he is standing there, a distant look on his face. For half a heartbeat, Brienne hopes he has changed his mind. He is dressed in full Night’s Watch black, which always brings out the gold in his hair, the green in his eyes. She wonders what he looked like in his white cloak. 

He is clutching something behind his back. “May I come in?” 

She wants to tell him no and close the door in his face, but she exhales a resigned sigh. “Certainly, Lord Commander.” Brienne steps away, lengthening the distance between them as far as possible in her small room. 

“I only came to deliver this.” He draws out the item from behind his back. It’s wrapped in folds of black fabric, tied shut with an austere piece of twine. She frowns, stepping forward to take it from him, and places it on her bed. Unwrapping the item, she freezes, stunned. Even in the dim light, the blade shines. Below a lion’s head pommel, rubies are embedded in the hilt. She lifts the sword gingerly, unsheathing it from the leather scabbard. Her breath catches in her throat at the red and black ripples in the steel. 

Brienne looks round at him, awe in her voice. “This is too fine a sword.” 

“It is one of two made from Ned Stark’s blade. My brother gifted them to my sister’s children, but they are too young to wield them, so he thought I might make better use of them here. Why he thought I would ever need two, I do not know.” 

The sword is light in her hand, as if she is holding nothing at all. “I cannot take this. It would not be fair.” 

He sighs, sounding irritated. “It is not a gift.” His features soften. “At least not only that,” Jaime murmurs. “We will travel to Eastwatch in a week’s time. It will be your first ranging beyond the Wall.” Whatever trace of gentleness he displayed a moment earlier is replaced by self-assurance, signifying that he is only her superior now. The Lord Commander. “Valyrian steel is one of the few ways to kill the Others.” 

She nods, starting to understand. The sword is a gesture she was not expecting. Nor can she claim to fully comprehend his motivation. Everything between them feels complex now, layered with meaning. 

The sword is practical if they are traveling. She is grateful for his thoughtfulness, but Brienne is uncertain how to express her feelings with him now. “Thank you,” she finally says. 

He nods. “A sword so fine should have a name. Think of one before we depart. Good evening, Lady Brienne.” 

Hearing her title ignites a tiny spark of hope in her chest. 


	8. the journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If we are to spend the rest of our lives at the Wall, then I will enjoy whatever time I may have out in the open.” The sun highlights his features, the sharp jaw, the slope of his nose. He looks different. Happy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's likely camping near the Wall would end with them freezing to death, but since the Brothers often go out ranging (which I assume involves camping), I didn't fret as much about the logic.

She is to meet the Lord Commander by the stables before first light. He is there before her, waiting. In one hand, he holds the reins to a tall bay mare and in the other, a beautiful blood bay stallion. Even though he wears a thick wool cloak lined with fur, slung around his hips is a sword which roughly matches the one she wears. The pommel is plainer than hers, although it is also encrusted with rubies and features simple gold etchings. 

They say little in the hours after they set off, Brienne content to watch the sun cresting over the horizon. Even though Castle Black is not surrounded by walls to the south, there is an odd freedom in putting distance between themselves and that place. The wind is cold, but as the sun rises further into the sky, the clouds part, as if they themselves are celebrating their journey. 

The Lord Commander begins to speak of the command they will find at Eastwatch. It is the smallest Night’s Watch hold with less than 200 men. Brienne asks how the leaders decide which brothers are to be placed where, wondering what her life might be like if she had been sent to Eastwatch or the Shadow Tower. She would not know the man riding beside her. 

“If men are reassigned to another castle, most travel along the top of the Wall. There are mules which carry men across.” 

“On top of the Wall?” Shielding her eyes, the thick ice formation rises so far into the sky she has to crane her neck. So tall that clouds cover its peak. 

He laughs. “Yes. I never understood it myself. Men travel up there because there are no clear paths. You might get lost in a snowstorm, but why be stuck on the Wall when you could be out here?” He gestures ahead of them. The lands are flat and vast, but the snow sparkles in the sunlight, stretching to the horizon. “If we are to spend the rest of our lives at the Wall, then I will enjoy whatever time I may have out in the open.” 

“Perhaps they were afraid brothers would wander off. Escape,” Brienne suggests. 

“Perhaps,” he concedes. “Would you rather be on a mule?” A smile pulls at his face. The sun highlights his features, the sharp jaw, the slope of his nose. He looks different. Happy. 

“No,” she replies, chuckling because she cannot imagine either of them atop a mule. “It is nice, being out here.” 

They enjoy the quiet for a moment, only the soft sounds of their horses’ hooves plodding through the thick snow. “I assume it never snows on Tarth.” 

“Not in my lifetime.” 

“Nor at the Rock or Lannisport.” He scratches at his beard. “What is it like, your isle? Tarth.” 

Brienne rarely thinks of home. It pains her that she will never see its waters again, or walk along the rocky, sandy cliffs, nor smell the scent of its sweet grasses after a storm. “It is beautiful there.” Even if by some miracle she was ever allowed to return, it would not be the same. The people would name her Kingslayer, as they did with the man beside her. 

*

They can’t keep the fire burning all night. It is a beacon for enemies to find them. The furs are thick and warmer than she expected, even in the freezing night air. It’s strange to realize Jaime is lying across from her in the dark, only a few feet away. 

As soon as she considers it, she imagines him slipping underneath the furs beside her, huddling together for warmth. The way he might slip a hand under the woolen tunic she wears, palming her breast, thumb playing with her nipple as he leaves a string of open-mouthed kisses down her neck. She shifts under the furs, the familiar sensation radiating between her thighs. Brienne turning to face him, her fingers unlacing his breeches, and slipping her hand inside to touch his cock. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she peers through the dark, trying to make out Jaime’s outline. She listens for his heavy breathing, but there’s only the gentle whirl of the wind in her ears. 

Flustered but sheltered by the darkness, she reaches down between her legs, can feel the damp heat through the fabric. She tries not to move too suddenly, for fear of waking Jaime, but ever so slowly she unties the laces on her breeches and slips her hand over the patch of hair between her legs. It’s not the first time she has pleasured herself. In those weeks when she first arrived, it became a necessary release, but she always put a chair in front of her door to prevent _certain_ people from barging inside. 

Her heart pounds in her chest, embarrassment giving her pause, but desire ultimately winning. When she touches herself, finally, her body shudders with delight. She loses herself to her imagination, remembering the armory, the way he pressed her against the door of his chambers, the look on his face when she dropped to her knees. Her head tilts back, her fingers moving faster. 

“Brienne.” his whisper in the dark startles her. Her cheeks burn with shame. She doesn't know if her repeated motions caused him to wake or if she accidentally let out a cry. She should stop, but her name on his lips makes the thrumming sensation between her legs intensify. “Are you awake?” 

He can probably hear her breath catching and stuttering. Brienne tries to respond, but instead lets out a soft moan. It’s quiet for a long moment and she nearly withdraws her hand, chiding herself for not having better self-control. 

Then finally, his heated whisper. “ _Fuck_.” 

Muffled sounds. Him reaching under the furs to unlace his breeches. 

“Are you touching yourself?” He asks, voice edging into a low growl. 

“Yes,” she breathes. 

“Brienne, I--fuck.” She loves inciting him to near speechlessness. It makes her feel strong in a completely different way than her physical strength. “I wish I could touch you.” 

“Me too,” she replies, biting back a moan. 

“Imagine I am lying behind you.” His words are fervid, as clear as if he’s murmuring them in her ear. 

“Yes.” Her breath hisses out of her throat, her fingers quickening. The heat of his body, the way he would curve his arm over her hip to touch her. 

“My fingers are stroking you. Kissing your neck.” 

But she is already ahead of him, her hips moving against her hand. “Jaime, I--” she chokes out. 

“Let yourself go. I want you to.” His breath hitches. “For me,” he manages to say, a raw rasp in his throat.

His words drive her over the edge. Brienne’s moans dissolve into a breathy cry as pleasure ripples through her body. 

“Fuck.” His voice is choked as he listens to her. Even as the waves slow for her, growing farther and farther apart, his stuttering breaths grow louder, the guttural groan in his chest. He is thinking of her. A thrill runs up her spine. 

As they both lie there in the dark, trying to slow their breathing, Brienne doesn’t know what to say. It is dangerous, what they’re doing. But she doesn't know how to stop. 

*

She wakes the next morning, expecting little to no acknowledgement of their nightly activities, but upon looking across the campfire to Jaime’s bedroll, he gives her a soft grin. Blush creeps into her cheeks and she nearly buries herself underneath the furs in embarrassment, but manages to return his smile. 

Once they set off from their campsite, he nods at the sword on her hip. “Well, did you name it?” 

She nods, hesitant. “Oathkeeper.”

“An interesting choice,” he concedes. “Considering neither of us were sent here for keeping oaths.” 

“After Renly’s death, Ser Loras was so distraught he killed two of our fellow guards,” she replies, her tone stoic. “There are many men who break their oaths and are not punished.”

Jaime is studying her, the quirk of an eyebrow. “But he did not harm you? The one who killed his lord?” 

“No, Lord Commander. I had already fled.” Her cheeks burn with embarrassment and she tucks her chin to her chest.

“Ah, I see,” he acknowledges. “And yet, Renly chose you to be on his guard. It is a rare choice to appoint a woman. He must have trusted you.” 

Despite everything which has happened, she still thinks warmly of Renly. Wishes she could have done more to protect him. “He is one of the few who have treated me fairly. I was proud to serve in his Rainbow Guard.”

He regards her with interest. “Go on. Tell me,” Jaime encourages. 

“You want to hear about the Rainbow Guard?” Brienne furrows her brow, confused. 

His demeanor is different since they set out for Eastwatch. “No, I mean...you can tell me what happened the night Renly died,” he says quietly. 

She wants nothing more than to tell him, but part of her holds back. “There is nothing to tell. I killed him.” 

Jaime gives her a long, knowing look, but says no more on the matter. 


	9. eastwatch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Without any regard for her presence, he begins to strip off his clothes. He pulls the doublet over his head, then his tunic, and stands there with his bare back to her, Brienne unable to look away. She clears her throat. “I should return to my room, Lord Commander, if there is nothing else.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW.

  
Jaime warns her the men at Eastwatch may not welcome a woman. “It would not be the first time,” she states dryly. 

He raises an eyebrow but continues on, “Cotter Pyke commands the castle and many say he’s the worst of the lot of us.” Another reason for their visit to Eastwatch is the leadership--including Jaime--wish to re-garrison one of its former holds, Long Barrow. Many of the castles have long been abandoned and fallen into ruins. “After deserting his post, Mance Rayder used it to escape North of the Wall. It’s possible he’ll use it again to bring the wildlings and free folk south, a battle we cannot afford to wage.” 

As they draw nearer, the wind blowing across their path has a hint of brininess. Brienne breathes it in gratefully, the scent making her miss home. She has not seen the sea since she set foot off the boat in Storm’s End nearly three years ago. Even as Eastwatch looms out of the clouds to their left, they keep riding towards the greenish gray horizon. Their horses’ hooves trot through the sand as she tastes the saltiness of the air on her lips. The half frozen beach is as dramatic as the sky. Large, black, jagged rocks form the natural coastline, and tall and angry waves crash against them, slapping at the shore. 

When she looks back at Jaime, there’s a smile on his face. Being out here, unfettered from duty and obligation has softened his edges. Unguarded. Perhaps this is what he was like before killing Aerys, before being sentenced here. Once they step inside Eastwatch, this Jaime will disappear and morph into Lord Commander once again.

*

He is not exaggerating about Cotter Pyke. The man has a sharp widow’s peak, a rough and wiry beard, and assesses her with his close set eyes. “Are we so desperate we lettin’ in womenfolk?” His eyes dart to Jaime and then back to Brienne. “You are a woman, ain’t ye?” 

“Tarth will give you no trouble,” the Lord Commander replies. 

“Ye don’t know how to fight or how to sail a ship. Womenfolk are good for one thing and-” 

The look on his face makes her skin crawl. Normally, Brienne might swallow her anger, but now she interrupts, “I grew up on an island where I learned to sail almost before I could walk. I’ve trained with swords since I was nine.” Beside her, Jaime shifts his stance and clears his throat. Her cheeks burn, realizing she’s gotten carried away. “My pardons, Commander Pyke, but I have to ready the Lord Commander’s quarters.” 

Pyke’s mouth hangs open in shock at her boldness, but recovers himself, still eyeing her disdainfully as he directs her to where Jaime will be sleeping. 

* 

Brienne is grateful she is not allowed in the Lord Commander’s meeting with Commander Pyke, certain that despite her reprimand, Pyke would not trust her to keep the discussions of the Watch’s leadership a secret. It’s just as well. She spends her time readying the Lord Commander’s rooms, which are almost as grand as his at Castle Black. There is a large fireplace, a table and two chairs for dining, a four poster bed, and a large desk. The desk is beautiful, so tall it nearly rises to her hip. It reminds her of a ship and she wonders if it’s made from the wood of one. By the time the Lord Commander returns to his rooms, she has built a fire, laid out his night robe, and there is a small meal waiting for him on a table nearby. It is more than she does at Castle Black and his eyes widen in surprise. 

“I did not expect our counsel to go so late.” He sounds tired and irritated, but his voice softens, adding, “If you have not supped, you should do so.” 

“I have.” After her run-in with Pyke, she did not want to brave the hall on her own, but no one seemed to notice her as she ate. Without any regard for her presence, he begins to strip off his clothes. He pulls the doublet over his head, then his tunic, and stands there with his bare back to her, Brienne unable to look away. She clears her throat. “I should return to my room, Lord Commander, if there is nothing else.”

“You may stay and eat with me, if you like,” he offers, his body half turning towards her as the firelight flickers over his skin. He has never asked her to stay during his meals. She swallows, but agrees. He slips on his nightshirt, leaving his laces untied as always, but does not wear the robe. Dropping down into the chair at the table, he gestures at her to take the other one, but stubbornness seizes hold and she shakes her head, remaining standing. “As you will,” he murmurs, shaking his head in amusement. “Are you prepared for tomorrow?” 

“I believe so.” He runs through the list of items they will require. 

“You most likely will be riding with me,” he informs her, glancing up. “The brothers usually pair off once we are north of the Wall.” 

Two seems too small a number if they are to face the threats she has been told they will, but she nods. The Lord Commander picks at his food and barely touches the wine. He pushes his plate away, lost in thought for a moment.   
  
“Brienne.” Her name deep in his throat. It isn’t fair for him to say her name like that. She freezes. “What you said to Cotter Pyke.” 

Her stomach drops, expecting admonishment. She should not have spoken back to him. “I apologize if I spoke out of turn, Lord Commander.” Brienne tucks her chin to her chest. 

“Yes.” His chair scrapes across the floor as he rises, his footfalls drawing closer, and then the warmth of his body mixing with hers. His fingers lift her chin, unable to shy away from the way his eyes study her lips before meeting her gaze. “I suppose I will have to punish you,” Jaime says slowly, relishing every word. 

Her stomach floods with heat, her whole body trembling with anticipation. And yet, despite the impulse coursing through her, says, “We shouldn’t. You said-” 

“I know what I said,” he snaps. The need in his eyes no doubt reflected in her own. “Consider this your punishment.” Jaime’s voice dips low, his fingers slowly wrapping around her hip. He steps in to kiss her, her eyelids fluttering closed as she feels his breath on her skin. His lips barely graze her mouth, only the hint of a taste, dragging across her bottom lip, his beard prickling, making her skin tingle. Kissing her softly, firmly, teasing her, before nipping at her lower lip again. He slides his hand into the hair at the nape of her neck and gives a little tug, Brienne making a startled but approving noise, which only spurns him on, his grip tilting her head as he places a burning path of open-mouth kisses down her neck. 

“I deserve it,” she breathes, understanding this game, and he moans against her skin, slipping his fingers into the waistband of her breeches. Hastily, he undresses her, allowing his eyes to roam her naked body as she stands there, trying to breathe. She whimpers when Jaime pushes her up against the wall and pins her arms above her head with one hand, quieting her by slipping his tongue into her mouth. 

“Don’t let me punish you without a fight. A little sparring, as it were,” he murmurs. Her whole body goes stock-still, mind racing for a moment, breathlessly watching him. “Come on.” His tone is no longer teasing, but sharper, the same as when he issues demands, but his request has unleashed her stony determination. Brienne only smiles, refusing his wishes. His grip tightens on her pinned wrists. Reaching down, his other hand brushes the back of her knee, and pulls it up to wrap around his hip before pressing the length of his body into hers, his hard cock against her thigh. A shocked gasp falls from her mouth. “Brienne,” he hisses in her ear, his breath making her shiver, but she does not bend. 

Lowering his head, he takes her nipple into his mouth, using his tongue and teeth first on one, then the other, until they are as flushed as the color spreading across her chest. The friction of his beard against her skin makes her whimper and long to touch him. Refusing to move away, he dotes attention with his tongue to her collarbone, her clavicle. She is squirming against him now. His eyes sparkle with desire, his bruising grip tightening over her wrists again, but it is too late because she works one of her arms free and pushes him across the room, so quickly he nearly trips over himself, until they crash against the end of the desk. His eyes widen with shock and arousal, murmuring, “There she is.” 

Brienne traces her tongue along his lower lip, eliciting a soft cry of surprise, before capturing his mouth fiercely with her own. Her hands are busy untying the laces on his breeches, lifting his tunic over his head, as their mouths kiss and bite, gasping for air. 

When he is undressed, she pushes her hand into his chest. “Lie back.” His eyes are hooded, dark with desire. He reaches for her, but she scoots out of his grasp, pushing him back onto the desk. “Lie back,” she repeats, impatient.

Yet Jaime continues to resist. He props himself up on his elbows, watching her, eyes full of unbridled lust. When her leg swings over his own as she pulls herself onto the desk, he drops flat on his back, letting out a shuttering groan. She takes her time, teasing him as he had her, settling her legs on either side of his hips, his cock pressed between them, swollen with want. Brienne clasps her hands at his elbows, pinning his arms and grinding her hips against him, his ragged breaths turning into a low growl in his chest. “Fuck,” he exhales, fighting to release his arms from her grip. His whole body is vibrating, muscles quivering against her. 

A smile pulls at her mouth and she leans forward, her chest pressing into his, as she murmurs. “Is this what you wanted?” Sitting up, she loosens her grip on his arms.

He nods, nearly speechless. “Yes,” he chokes out. She takes him in her hand and he pants beneath her. “Please, I need-” But she’s already lifting her hips and sliding down onto his cock, Jaime crying out. His eyes flare with hunger each time she moves against him, his gaze mapping her body, her control over him. He leans forward, his mouth on her skin, his palm curving at the nape of her neck, his fingertips sliding into her hair, so he can gently tug her head up, her breath stuttering at the way he’s looking at her, his lips parted, his chest heaving. “Fuck me, Brienne.” 

Her hips move faster against him, Jaime gripping her ass, cries escaping them both. When he sits up, beginning to thrust into her, every sensation becomes more intense, the slick of their bodies moving together and apart. Nearing the edge, Brienne wraps her arms around his shoulders as her body curls towards his, hips bucking and legs shaking, his hand steady along her spine as she falls apart on top of him, and his groan in her ear a few moments later as he chases his release. Their hips still roll together lazily for a little while as both of them try to catch their breaths, Jaime lying back, holding her against his chest. 

“Shall we go to bed, my lady?” Her senses have not fully come back to her yet, but she should go back to her room. She presses lazy kisses over his chest and his fingers whisper through her hair like a soft breeze. Brienne finally lifts herself off him, crossing to fetch her clothes and dress. “You’re leaving?” She glances over at where he’s still sitting on the edge of the desk. There’s hurt written on his face and she frowns. 

Slipping her tunic back over her head, she says, “It doesn’t seem wise, considering.” He’s the one who set the boundary and then broke it. But she cannot be unkind to him, so gives a quick excuse before leaving, “Someone might notice I did not use my room. Good night.” 

“Good night.”

*

Before first light, a small pack of fifty or sixty brothers, including Cotter Pyke and the Lord Commander, set out. The men talk and laugh together, but as soon as they move beyond the Wall, a hush falls over them. Slowly, the group dwindles in number as pairings split off to explore. Smaller and smaller still, until it is only she and Jaime riding through the Haunted Forest. 

The first thing she notices is the quiet. There’s no wind, no sound other than the ones their horses make across the snow. They are both alert. Brienne has one hand gripped tightly in the rein, the other on the hilt of Oathkeeper. As they move deeper into the woods, she scans each line of trees for any potential threats. A branch snaps, startling her. A raven caws and flaps its wings.

When the Others come, she hears nothing, sees nothing other than the bright blue of their eyes burning against their pale skin. 

“Get behind me!” Jaime shouts, his voice cutting through the silence, bringing her back to her senses. There is little time to react, she can only raise her sword, the blade cutting through them. She glances at Jaime, who is fighting off two of them. Moving to help him, the Other’s icy sword slices perilously close to her, but she swings back, a pile of bones collapsing onto the snow. Jaime’s horse whickers and out of the mist, another white walker flies towards them. Everything happens slowly, as it did in Renly’s tent. Her mouth opens, trying to warn him. It’s too late, but he brings up his sword, and then the beautiful blade is falling to the ground. 

Against the white snow, there is a bright spray of red. 

And Jaime’s scream.


	10. the aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The small gestures nearly bring tears to her eyes. She wants to know him this way, too. Soft. Loving. Only not like this. Whole and well and happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next couple chapters will be hurt/comfort, but I will be getting back to the heat between them, I promise.
> 
> Oh yes, and some of Jaime's dialogue here is borrowed from the books.

She wraps his wound in her cloak, slides behind him in the saddle, and races back to Eastwatch. Shouting for the maester as they arrive, men scramble forward to help, lifting Jaime down from her horse and carrying him inside. Her throat feels raw and thick, hard to swallow or breathe. Her cheeks are streaked with tears she did not realize she was crying. 

Everything is covered in blood. Her breeches, the saddle, even the horse’s hair. Inside, his chambers are a flurry of activity. The maester has already arrived and is tending to Jaime’s wound. “My child,” he says to her. “You must tell me what happened.” 

*

Maester Harmune cleanses and wraps the wound, administering milk of the poppy for the pain. Hours pass, but Brienne stays with Jaime, refusing food or sleep. When the maester retires for the night, he tells her, “You may fetch me at any hour, child.” She nods, grateful. 

Her hand slips into his. Brienne’s eyes fall to his right arm, now bandaged in clean linen. _His sword hand._ It’s silly to mourn him, a version of him she never knew. The Young Lion. A man, a knight who was hated as much as he was admired. Who broke his oaths, forgot his morals, lost his way. Yet every time Jaime picked up a sword, there was the glint in his eye of the promising young man he once was. The man who longed to be the Golden Knight and ended up the Kingslayer instead. 

Guilt pools in her stomach, uncertain of what will happen when Jaime wakes, how he will react. She failed to protect him just as she had Renly. Only this time, she had not fled. 

*

Sunlight streaming through the windows wakes Brienne. Her body is stiff from the chair. She reaches up to brush the hair off of Jaime’s forehead, only to find his skin burning with heat. Preparing cool cloths, she lays one across his forehead, and his eyelids flicker. “Jaime,” she murmurs, heart pounding in her throat. “Please.” 

He wakes slowly, his eyes foggy, perhaps still emerging from the milk of the poppy. Jaime grimaces and it’s as if she can feel it too: the agony of the loss, the burning pain, the phantom limb. She reaches for water, cradling his head in one arm and bringing the cup to his lips so he can drink. He nods, grateful, but his eyes remain glazed, not really seeing her. 

“Do you want more milk of the poppy?” Between the wound and the fever, no doubt he’s in a great deal of pain. He shakes his head and her brow furrows with worry. “Are you certain?” 

  
“Brienne.” Her name is raspy in his throat. Tender. He squeezes her hand. Grateful. The small gestures nearly bring tears to her eyes. She wants to know him this way, too. Soft. Loving. Only not like this. Whole and well and happy. “The maester,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. He begins to shiver and Brienne is loath to leave him. Pulling up the bedclothes to his chin, she tucks them tight around his body. 

“Hold on,” she tells him, planting a quick kiss on his cheek before running to the maester’s chambers. 

When they return, Jaime is sweating, so she strips the bedclothes back. The maester moves slowly and she nearly snaps at him to do _something_ , but bites back her frustration and waits as he unwinds the linen from Jaime’s wound. Brienne dips a clean cloth in a bowl of water, squeezes it out, and places it across his forehead.

Maester Harmune sucks in his breath. “It’s bad,” she states. Dread creeps into her chest, squeezing tightly, and winds itself around her limbs. 

“It looks as if the wound is corrupted. The best course would be to take more of the arm off.” 

“No,” Jaime objects loudly. 

“Shhh,” she soothes. Looking to Maester Harmune, Brienne asks, “Is that why he’s fevered? The corruption?” 

The old man nods. “Yes, it seems likely.” 

“How much?” 

“I think it would be wise to make the cut at the elbow.” 

“No,” Jaime shouts again. He coughs, as if he is trying to say more, but cannot manage it. Brienne tries to calm him and gives him another drink of water, before turning back to Maester Harmune.

“No,” she replies staunchly. “It’s his right arm,” Brienne states, as if that explains everything. “Take as little as you can.” 

“Very well. It will not be pretty. You may wish to leave.” 

She shakes her head. “No, I will stay. I am his steward, it is my duty.” If the maester is surprised by her decision, he does not show it, only orders one of the brothers to fetch the tools and ingredients he will need. Brienne turns to Jaime and explains what is going to happen, news he absorbs with only a grimace. Her hand itches to stroke his hair. “I am sorry. It will be quick,” she promises, even though she does not know if it will be. 

“You will want milk of the poppy,” Harmune says patiently. 

“No.” Jaime refuses. 

“There’ll be pain.” 

“I’ll scream.” His stubbornness assures Brienne that she has not lost him yet. 

“I’ll fetch some wine,” she tells him, wishing they were alone so she could drop a kiss on his lips, his forehead. Upon returning, she holds the cup of wine to Jaime’s mouth as he gulps it down. Then a brother arrives to help move the Lord Commander. Between him and Brienne, they rotate Jaime so his head lies at the foot of the bed, his right arm dangling off the mattress. Harmune moves a small table underneath the wound. 

Hot tears burn in Brienne’s eyes. When Maester Harmune begins to cut into his flesh, Jaime’s screams are loud, echoing in her ears even after he loses consciousness. 

*

Once the maester is gone, she convinces Jaime to sip some Dreamwine so he can rest. As he falls asleep, she strokes her fingers through his hair, once again studying his face. The bump in the bridge of his nose has always intrigued her, perhaps an injury from childhood adventures. Soft lines are beginning to show around his eyes, making her remember the way they crinkle when he smiles or laughs. Even the growth of a beard cannot hide the sharp angle of his jaw. 

“Burn them all,” he murmurs.


	11. the confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Your apologies will do me no good, Tarth.” He brushes her sympathy away, but his face is soft and hopeful for a moment before it transforms, gaze glinting, as he teases, “But your hands do. Keep scrubbing.” He grins at her cheekily. 

Brienne wakes, bone weary, back aching from sleeping sitting up. Laying a hand across Jaime’s forehead, his skin has cooled, and she decides to fetch some food, as he has not eaten in days. 

Upon returning to his chambers, she finds him awake, staring at the ceiling. “You’re still here?” his voice is sharp, words striking her across the cheek like a blow from a tourney sword. Gone is the worried, vulnerable man she longed to hold tightly. Returned are his jagged edges and caustic wit. 

“You would be dead if it were not for me.” Worse, he would have turned into one of the Others. 

“Perhaps I wish I were,” he mutters bitterly. “We are only marking time at the Wall. It’s hardly as if the former Lord Commanders came to pleasant endings.” 

“Jaime.” Her voice softens, imagining if she lost her sword hand, how disorienting it would be, whether she would have the strength to wake each morning. “Don’t say that.” But Brienne cannot deny the atmosphere at the Wall is bleak, despite their duties which keep them occupied. Perhaps they are here to give each other a spark of hope. “You are the Lord Commander. You will learn to fight with your left hand.”

He shakes his head, his gaze lifeless. “They will replace me. Shove me in a corner, forget me, just as Robert did. _The King_ ,” Jaime pronounces, sarcasm sliding off his tongue. “He should have sentenced me to death after I slew Aerys. Instead he chose to strip me of my cloak and pack me off to the North, hoping everyone would forget about me, and might think I was already dead.” 

Hoping to draw him out of his self-loathing and bitterness, Brienne says, “You have never struck me as a coward.” 

A fire flickers to life in his eyes. “You would do well to remember I am still your superior,” he grits out. 

“Perhaps I will request a transfer to Eastwatch,” Brienne replies stoically, uninterested in rewarding his dramatics further. “Commander Pyke seems preferable.”

“Fine,” he snaps. “You may do whatever you like.” Jaime grimaces, his left hand reaching for his right arm. 

“You should eat.” 

“I would prefer to wash this stench off of me. Draw me a bath,” he demands.

There are some duties as a steward which she did not foresee. Getting a maimed man undressed and into a tub is one of them. He ineffectively pulls at his tunic with his left hand before her hand covers his, stilling Jaime’s movements. “Let me.” 

Standing there helpless as a child, his gaze flickers over her face, only this time, searching not for hunger or physical desire. Comfort, perhaps, or safety. 

Careful not to bump his right arm, she lifts his tunic over his head. There is a bruise purpling on his shoulder and without thinking, her fingertips fall to trace it. Jaime’s eyelids flutter closed at her touch. Realizing what she has done, Brienne draws her hand away and he opens his eyes slowly, studying her for a long moment. She stares back, as if it is the first time they are seeing each other. Perhaps it is. 

Brienne reaches for the laces on his breeches. Glad she is already familiar with his body or she would be blushing furiously. When they are loose around his waist, she asks if he’s able to take them off himself. Stepping away, she fetches the water warming over the fire, bringing it back to pour into the metal tub. Jaime is by her side a moment later, his hand resting on her shoulder as he steps into the bath and settles down into the water with a sigh. He keeps his right arm propped against the side of the tub. “You will have to do the scrubbing, Tarth.” Brienne chokes back a rude remark, but her annoyance must show, as a sly smile spreads across Jaime’s face. 

Although she is glad Jaime feels well enough to tease her, every little twinge and grimace make it clear how much pain he’s enduring. Brienne grabs the brush, sliding it across a soap cake a few times before crouching down beside him. She runs the brush from his neck down his left arm. He shivers, goose flesh breaking out along his skin. Jaime closes his eyes and when she strokes the bristles across his skin again, he hums. “You never told me about Renly.” 

“There is nothing to tell.” She picks up a pitcher of water, pouring a bit over him to wash away the soap. “Tilt your head to the right,” Brienne says, intent on her task. 

Jaime peeks one eye open as she scrubs soap along the tendons of his neck. “You are a terrible liar,” he chuckles. Blush burns at her cheeks. He has always been able to read her easily, nearly from the moment they met.

“I will tell you of Renly if you tell me how you got your title.” She rinses his neck, fingers brushing along his moist skin. Brienne moves around the tub so she can wash his right side, careful to keep the linen wrapped around his wound dry. 

“Which title? Lord Commander?” he asks, frowning.

“Kingslayer.” 

Jaime’s brow tightens and the muscles in his jaw clench. “There is nothing to tell.” 

She sighs in frustration, dropping the brush into the tub. “If you wish to be so insolent, you may wash yourself.” Brienne stands, stretching her muscles, her knees aching from where they were pressed into the hard floor. 

He tilts his head back to rest against the edge of the tub, his eyes traveling up her long frame. “I did not imagine you would be so cruel to a cripple,” Jaime replies, the self-pity returning. 

He may look at himself as a changed man, but she does not. He is still Jaime. Brienne wishes he could see himself as she does, but knows it will take patience and time. “Jaime, I am sorry. About your-”

“Your apologies will do me no good, Tarth.” He brushes her sympathy away, but his face is soft and hopeful for a moment before it transforms, gaze glinting, as he teases, “But your hands do. Keep scrubbing.” He grins at her cheekily. 

“You are exasperating, _Lord Commander_ ,” Brienne exhales, but bends down beside the tub again. “Lean forward.” 

“Ow,” he objects when she begins to scrub his back. “You’ll scrub the skin off. Not so rough.”

“I thought you liked it rough.” Realizing what she’s said a moment too late, she stutters, starts to explain herself, but a laugh ripples up Jaime’s throat and her body floods with relief. 

“Only with you,” he says lowly. Brienne flushes, glad she is behind him so he cannot see her face. He reaches back for her with his left hand. “I do not deserve you.” 

She stands from her squat, rounding the tub to see his iciness from earlier swirling away, replaced by a soft warmth. He does not understand what he has become to her. A friend, a comfort, a promise of something she thought she would never have. 

His left hand reaches for her again. “Take me to bed and I will tell you about Aerys.” 

*

After he is dry and dressed in fresh clothes, Brienne guides him across the room towards the bed. “Come lie beside me, Lady Brienne.” 

“What?” she frowns, uncertain as to his meaning. 

“I thought you might want to be comfortable for the story, as it is a long one, but if you would rather stay in the chair, you may.” 

“No, I-” she stammers, flustered. “I mean, I want to.” Brienne climbs into his bed, lying on her side atop the covers, body curling towards him. Jaime is unable to rest on his side without his body weight pressing against his stump, so he lies on his back. “What happened?” she asks gently, longing to reach out and trail her fingertips through his beard. 

He tells her everything: how he joined the Kingsguard to piss off his father, how it quickly became clear to him that King Aerys only selected him to hurt Tywin, and how he witnessed the King’s growing insanity, including the abuse of the queen and the executions of Brandon and Rickard Stark. Jaime explains how Aerys planned to burn the whole city, including thousands of innocent women and children and how he wanted Jaime to kill his own father. “It seemed like some sign from the Gods that I should be the sole member of the Kingsguard left in the city,” he says, his voice scarcely above a whisper. “It was my chance. I knew what I had to do.” He killed the pyromancer first, then entered the Throne Room for Aerys. 

When he is finished, Brienne can hardly breathe. There are tears in her eyes when she finally manages to ask, “Why did you never tell anyone?”

“No one would believe me,” he replies quietly. 

She cups his face in both her hands. After revisiting those horrible memories, Jaime’s eyes are listless and dark, but he allows her touch. “I believe you.” Brienne presses a slow, gentle kiss to his lips. 

He raises his left hand to her cheek, fingertips tracing along her skin, before kissing her gratefully again and again. His fingers brush through the fine strands of her hair, gentle, barely grazing his lips across hers, then returning, warm mouth lingering, in no hurry to demonstrate his appreciation. His beard brushes against her cheeks and chin and she lets out a low, “Mmm.” As their kisses deepen, his body starts to roll towards hers, and he lands on his stump. 

The impact shudders through him and Brienne’s eyes fly open. “Are you alright?” she asks, worried he might faint. He grimaces, shaking his head, air snorting in and out his nostrils as he struggles to breathe. “I’m so sorry,” she soothes. The last thing she wants is for him to endure more pain. She rubs her hand down his left arm, helping turn him onto his back again. “You should eat something.” 

“Brienne,” he rasps, his left hand grasping for her. “Don’t go.” So she stays, lying back down on her side. She slides her hand into his and Jaime threads his fingers through hers, his left arm stretched across his body, their hands clasped between them. 


	12. the return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime is standing, untying his robe, and letting it fall to his feet. Brienne lets out a gasp and then bites down hard on her lip. He freezes at the sound, his eyes flying to hers, before a wicked grin spreads across his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the books, Winterfell has the industry and engineering to have steam heat pumped through the walls of the castle, so I figure the same technology might apply to the Night's Watch. 
> 
> NSFW.

They stay in Eastwatch for several weeks, Brienne determined Jaime will heal as fully as possible before their return journey. While he is recovering, she has another run-in with Pyke.

_The Lord Commander relies on you for quite a lot, don’t he?_

Brienne wonders if he knows more about their relationship than he is letting on. The longer they stay, the more watchful Commander Pyke becomes. She tells Jaime about the incident, but he only insists they return as soon as possible, and Brienne is not going to risk his health simply because of her supposition.

Upon returning to Castle Black, Jaime keeps himself locked away in his rooms more often. Before he lost his hand, his duties as Lord Commander kept him visible and he thrived on being in the thick of things, whether it was meeting with his counsel or watching training in the yard. 

He lets her see more than anyone else, his mounting frustration when he can’t dress himself or pour a glass of water. Brienne has to cut his food and write his letters. Most of the time, he has the decency to apologize for his irritation, wanting to assure her it is not anger with her, but instead at his own vulnerability.

She stays by Jaime’s side. They have a solid trust in one another now, stronger than before, but his injury has changed things. Her hands may skim across his skin as she helps him dress, but other than when he told her about Aerys, they have not done so much as kiss. She is his steward and caretaker. 

But sometimes, she remembers how easily the low tone of his voice made her whole body feel alight, and she longs for those moments, too.

Bringing lunch to his chambers one afternoon, she finds the Lord Commander and Maester Aemon speaking, several large pieces of metal on the table between them. “And this would cover the wrist?” 

“Yes, quite well. There are a few stays on the underarm which you may tighten or loosen to your liking.”

“It looks to be very fine craftsmanship. I will think on it and let you know. Perhaps the one which may bear a shield is the best choice,” Jaime says cheerfully. 

Brienne sets his lunch in front of him, completing any tasks which he has not fully mastered yet, but which will be needed for him to eat his meal, her eyes falling to the drawings on the table. “What are these?” Even though the Lord Commander confides in her more than perhaps he ought, it is bold to ask. 

“Plans. The maester thinks I might benefit from a forged hand to wear over the wound.” She isn’t convinced, but is glad to hear Jaime happy. “It might also work quite well as an extra weapon,” he jokes, an eyebrow lifting. “I thought perhaps you might consider sparring with me in the mornings? It will be quite easy for you, as my skill with my left hand is approximate to a child’s.”

Brienne flushes, pleased he wants her. He easily could have asked anyone else. “Gladly, Lord Commander. The same time as when we met before?” He nods, smiling. 

*

When she arrives in the yard, Jaime is already there. Brienne stands back in the shadows, watching him. He holds a tourney sword in his left hand, but keeps adjusting his grip, his stance. None of the confidence he used to carry is there, his body slumped and awkward. 

The weight of sorrow settles deep in her bones, but Jaime is more than his sword hand. The frustration on his face wanes as she approaches, his hand falling to his side and Brienne greets him with a warm smile. “Good morning, Lord Commander,” she says, her voice light and teasing, just for him. 

“Good morning, Lady Brienne.” It is a name she has not heard from his lips in a long time. His tone is darker, unable to match the same lilt as hers, but when she glances up at him, there is an appreciative look on his face. 

“How do you wish to start?” she asks softly, aware this will be very different from their normal sparring sessions. Brienne has no doubt his temper will flare, but doesn’t want him to be discouraged. Jaime should be made to feel cared for and safe, so he is comfortable asking for what he needs, whatever might make him better and stronger, in time. 

He holds his left wrist out shakily. “Perhaps the grip. It feels strange.” 

“Understandably so.” She holds her tourney sword in her left hand, and it is a weird sensation, but Brienne extends her arm for him to see, so he may mimic her grip. 

Jaime tries, carefully placing his fingers, a sigh escaping him when it’s not quite right. 

“Nearly there,” she replies, seeing how his grip looks similar to hers. “Here. May I?” He nods and she takes a step towards him, her fingertips brushing over his knuckles, and adjusting the way his thumb is pressed against the hilt. His breath hitches in his throat and longing swells up inside Brienne. “Is that better?” she asks, glancing up at him. He nods, his throat bobbing as he swallows. “Good,” she replies, nodding. “Now extend your arm out.” Jaime obeys, but his left shoulder drops low. “Here,” Brienne steps in front of him, extending her left arm out so he may see her. “You’re dropping your shoulder.” 

A small smile pulls at his lips. “You are a very patient teacher. Perhaps I should name you the master-at-arms.” The levity in his eyes makes her heart surge.

“You’re doing fine.” She steps into him again, lifting his shoulder. “May I?” Brienne asks, her hand hovering over his hips. She has seen him recently in various states of undress, but his body feels so slender, so pliable in her hands as she adjusts his stance. Brienne continues to correct his movements, Jaime only losing his temper once, but he apologizes immediately. The early morning passes quickly to daylight, both of them surprised to notice other occupants of the castle starting to stir. “Same time tomorrow?”

He nods, but as she turns to go, he calls for her, “Lady Brienne?” 

“Yes?” she asks, pausing and facing him. The Lord Commander strolls towards her, closing the space between them. Her eyes scan the yard, suddenly aware of how they must look. 

As he draws close, he lowers his voice, “I would like to take a bath.” Jaime runs a hand over his beard, eyes twinkling. “I meet with First Ranger Stark today and would like to be presentable.” 

She swallows. His _request_ reminds her of the late night summons to his chambers, the time he “reprimanded” her for speaking back to Pyke. Warmth pools between her legs. She nods, unable to speak, his green eyes bright in the lengthening sun.

*

After breaking her fast, Brienne goes to the Lord Commander’s chambers. “Ah, you’re here. Good. Follow me.” He brushes past her out into the hallway, something pressed against his chest. 

She stares after him, confused, before hurrying to catch up. “Where are we going?” 

“I want to show you something.” Jaime flies through the corridors, but Brienne hesitates when it becomes clear where he’s leading them. The baths. When he told her, she assumed it would be alone in his chambers, not the large ones for the whole Night’s Watch. 

“We can’t,” she hisses. “Everyone will see.”

“Nonsense,” he replies nonchalantly. “I had them cleared out for our use.” 

“ _Jaime._ ” She warns, both surprised and relieved at the cocky confidence returning to him.

He pauses, half turning to look back at her. “If you don’t trust me, you are quite welcome to leave.” Brienne stays firmly planted where she is. “Good.”

The steamy halls of the baths greet them, empty as Jaime promised, the clicking of their boots echo off the walls. At any moment, she expects him to select a bath, and begin to peel off his clothes, but they go farther and farther into the large rooms, the dark and dank walls illuminated only by flickering torch light. They pass through a doorway she has never noticed before and it’s as if they have crossed into another world, for now they stand in a small room. There is a wooden door in front of them. A curtain is drawn across one wall and opposite from it sits a bench, the wood polished to a dark sheen. Jaime reaches underneath it, bringing out a basket, and passes her a folded square of fabric. A robe. “You may step in there,” he gestures to the curtained area. “And change out of your clothes into the robe.” The cloth is roughspun yet soft. 

“What is this place?” 

Jaime steps forward, opening the wooden door. A large cloud of steam billows out from the room and the hazy swirls prevent her from seeing farther inside. “A steam room. According to the maester, it is supposed to help muscle soreness, and perhaps may do some good for my…” he trails off, eyes falling to his right arm. “I thought it might be a way to thank you for your help today.” 

She starts to object, but then tucks her chin to her chest. “Thank you.” 

“And for us to be alone.” His voice hums as if it is skimming across her skin, arms breaking out in gooseflesh. 

“We are often alone, Lord Commander.” Jaime only lifts his eyebrows in reply.

He waits for her to change, and then Brienne loosens his laces on his tunic and breeches, so he may easier undress himself, before he steps behind the curtain. “I will warn you it is very warm inside. If you get too hot, you can always step out. There is water on a shelf above your head.” She stands, reaching for the pitcher, sipping a glass as she waits. 

When he draws back the curtain, he is outfitted in a crimson and black robe. He has tied it rather loosely around his waist, leaving exposed a long trail of skin nearly reaching to his navel. Her eyes fall even further, imagining his cock hiding in the dark fabric, her nipples stiffening and brushing against the thin fabric of the robe she’s wearing. “Won’t you be hot?” she manages to ask. 

He shrugs nonchalantly. “Don’t plan to wear it for long, my lady.” Brienne gulps the last of her water. “Are you ready?” 

She takes a deep breath, nodding, and Jaime opens the door, disappearing into the steam swirling within. Hesitantly, Brienne follows behind him. Squinting against the heat, she can hardly see more than a foot in front of her, so pauses just inside the doorway. His voice comes out of the mist. “It is a small space. There is a bench to your right. I am on your left.” Closing the door behind her, she stumbles, sliding onto the bench. Sweat is already gathering on her upper lip. Once settled, she can make him out across the small room, face flushed. “Comfortable?”

Comfortable would not be the word she would choose to describe it. The room is hot. Steam clings to her skin and sweat drips down her neck, making her hair curl at the ends, but the wet heat oddly reminds her of summers on Tarth. She lays her head back against the wall, eyelids starting to flutter closed when there is movement. 

Jaime is standing, untying his robe, and letting it fall to his feet. Brienne lets out a gasp and then bites down hard on her lip. He freezes at the sound, his eyes flying to hers, before a wicked grin spreads across his face. She realizes in that moment how small the space between them really is. If he took two steps towards her, she could touch him, wrap her mouth around his cock. Her throat is dry, desire bubbling up inside her. “I’m glad you’re appreciating the view, Lady Brienne,” he murmurs, in a voice so low it curls up inside her chest. 

She should be used to seeing him naked by now, but helping him dress is one thing, the way he is staring at her now, his eyes glittering like emeralds, his cock half hard, is another. “Jaime.” Her voice is husky, inching towards reverent. Her eyes travel the broad planes of his chest, the darkening golden hair which is dusted across his lower abdomen, the thick muscle of his thighs. Everything about him is beautiful. Brienne reaches out to take him in her hand, but he steps backwards. “I want to touch you,” she pleads, thinking this must be one of his games.

“I can’t let you do that.” He must see the hurt and confusion on her face, because his throat bobs. “I can’t touch you with this.” Even through the steam swirling around him, Brienne does not miss his disgusted look as he glances at his right hand.

“Please,” she tries again, quietly, gentle. “Jaime, I want to.” 

He wraps his hand around his own cock and Brienne sucks in a breath over her teeth. “Untie your robe.” 

Her face is already burning from the temperature of the room, so undressing while he watches-- Jaime’s face hazy with heat and want--doesn’t deter her as much as it normally might. Not as daring as he, she leaves the robe on her shoulders, but pulls the fabric back to expose her breasts, the patch of blonde hair between her legs. It’s his turn to take in a sharp breath as he gently strokes himself. For _her_. 

He licks his lips and for a moment, she thinks he is going to fall to the floor and worship her with his mouth, his tongue. Her pulse thrums in her ears, hands shaking with the overwhelming want this man inspires in her. “Tell me what you want to do to me.” 

_This isn’t fair._ She _wants_ the heat of him underneath her fingers, the power he makes her feel, the saltiness on her tongue. She thinks she says all of this, somehow, it tumbles from her lips, spit pooling in her mouth as she watches Jaime continue to stroke himself. 

“Touch yourself, Brienne. For me.” His voice is strained and desperate. 

It’s tempting to rush, to relieve herself of the aching desire like she does at the end of some days, but her movements slow, reveling in Jaime’s gaze, his heavy breaths. She dips her hand into the hollow of her collarbone, moist with sweat, and ever so slowly, slowly, trails it across her breast, fingers circling her already taut nipple. Her eyes fall closed, but his hitched and stuttering breaths are enough to encourage her. 

When she finally presses her fingers to her opening, she gasps, wishing she could have him inside her. “I know you’re wet for me,” he practically growls. “You always are.” His words are almost enough to send her over the edge. Her head falls back, a whimper escaping her lips. “Yes,” he groans. “I wish you could see yourself.” She opens her eyes, vision momentarily hazy with steam, but Jaime’s eyes blaze hotter than their surroundings as his hips thrust into his hand. 

She spreads her legs wider, scooting forward so her ass grips the edge of the bench, her thighs shaking as her fingers move faster, lower, pressing against her clit until she is crying out his name. 

“Fuck, Brienne.” His voice guttural as he finishes quickly behind her. Jaime drops down on the bench beside her, grasping her thigh. “Gods,” he intones, chest heaving, head tilted back against the wall. 

When she has recovered, she wraps the robe around her again and steps outside the room, fetching water for both of them. “Jaime,” her tone is tender. “You haven’t changed. Not to me.” 

“You deserve someone whole.” Misery twists his features, but he doesn’t let her in. Won’t. “We should go.”


	13. a reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Even if you could not fight, would that make you weak?” He glances up. “Strength is in here.” She points to her head. It is the same advice Goodwin gave her once. Brienne crosses to him. Three steps. “And here.” She presses her hand over his heart, which is drumming against his chest. “You are strong.” 
> 
> Green on blue as he studies her. A subtle contraction of the muscles in his throat as he swallows. “Brienne.” Her name is a whisper on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a couple people ask me about this in the comments, so I wanted to address that Jaime and Brienne are taking contraceptive precautions (i.e. moon tea), even if it's not mentioned explicitly. They're both consenting adults and they understand the consequences of their sexual relationship.

They meet in the yard in the morning. All she has been able to think of is Jaime’s words. He believes he’s damaged. Incomplete. 

Yet the man she meets today is restless and brazen. He has no patience for her corrections, her gentle teaching of yesterday. He crouches into a stance, a weak one, and encourages her to have a go at him. “Treat me as you would any opponent.” 

But every time he steps towards her, Jaime leaves his whole right side vulnerable to attack, and it is all too easy for her to tap him with the blunted tourney sword. 

“Again,” he says, eyes flashing. 

The second time she lets him press into her, his footwork is a mess and his arm drops as he swings at her. She thwacks his hip with her blade. 

“Again.” 

A third time. And a fourth. Every time she ends his attempt with a smack of her sword. She holds back on the force, but it will leave marks all the same. 

“Again.”

This carries on until his shoulders slump, all the fight gone out of him. 

“I’m not strong enough. I’ll never be…”

“Jaime,” she warns, wanting to tell him what she saw. He is someone who’s not willing to give up so easily. “It’s only the second day. You are doing well.” 

“I suppose.” He kicks at the dirt with his boot, not looking at her. 

“Even if you could not fight, would that make you weak?” He glances up. “Strength is in here.” She points to her head. It is the same advice Goodwin gave her once. Brienne crosses to him. Three steps. “And here.” She presses her hand over his heart, which is drumming against his chest. “You are strong.” 

Green on blue as he studies her. A subtle contraction of the muscles in his throat as he swallows. “Brienne.” Her name is a whisper on his lips. 

She covers his mouth with her hand. “Show me.” 

Jaime picks up his sword and they go again. 

*

Since they returned to Castle Black, nearly every meal in the great hall has Jon, Edd, and Sam asking after the Lord Commander. Occasionally, others will stop by their table to send along their regards to Jaime. 

Tonight, two men sitting at the table behind them are talking loudly, heard over the noise in the hall. “So he can’t fight?” one of them asks. 

“Aye, it was his sword hand.” 

“He has that _woman_ helping him. I saw them in the yard.” Brienne stiffens and notices Jon’s eyes on her, but she shakes her head, trying to ignore it. 

“He should not be Lord Commander if he cannot hold a sword. How is he supposed to help us against the wildlings, the Others, if he can’t fight.”

“You should have seen him today. _Cripple_.” 

She rises to her feet then, one of the men eyeing her and nudging his friend in the side. He has red hair and a beard, rather portly, his friend a skinny rail of a thing with dark hair. “There she is.” 

“If you have something you want to say about the Lord Commander, you should have the courtesy to tell him to his face.” The hall falls quiet, her heart thudding against her ribs. 

The redhead mumbles, “I didn’t get sent to the Wall only to have my Lord Commander be a cripple.” 

She moves around the table before she can think, grabbing the back of the man’s jerkin, and one handed, hauls him off the bench. “You think you are better than him because you have two arms? He is our Lord Commander and you will _not_ speak of him that way.” Spit hits the man’s cheek, but he does shrink away, merely sneers at her, attempting to wrangle himself free from her grasp. Brienne draws back a fist, but before she can strike him, Jon and Edd hurry to break up the confrontation, separating them. 

Jon pulls Brienne aside and a few others surround the redhead, who brushes them off, but he has not gained back the color in his face, she is proud to note. Sam suggests they talk a walk around the courtyard to clear their heads. “That sounds fine,” she huffs, her whole body humming with energy.

*

Before turning in for the night, Brienne goes to check on the Lord Commander, making sure he does not need her assistance with anything further. She knocks before entering. “Lord Commander?” He looks up from his seat in front of the fireplace. “I wanted to make sure you had everything you needed for the night.” She notices a flagon of wine on the table beside him and steps forward. “Do you need me to pour this? You can call for me any time.”

“I heard what you did in the great hall,” he says quietly. Since Jaime now prefers to spend his days hidden away, she’s surprised the news has reached him so quickly. “It may be your job to serve me, but I do not expect you to defend me.”

“You wanted to defend me when Chett called me...” she trails off, not needing to finish. His clenched jaw tells her he remembers. “But I cannot stand up for you?” 

He shakes his head, his voice hushed. “You shouldn’t. It might put you in danger-”

“I did it because he should not disrespect you,” Brienne interrupts, then her voice softens. “No one should.” But perhaps Jaime is right. She wouldn’t have been so quick to defend the Lord Commander if she did not know what he had gone through. If she had not seen him lose his hand or nursed him back to health. 

“They will talk, all of them,” he says, voice rising in irritation. “I would be foolish to think they wouldn’t.”

“Maybe they would not talk as much if you came out of hiding,” she breathes, keeping her tone detached and calm. It would not take much from him to demonstrate the leadership which the brothers are seeking. It is evident to her, after seeing how many of her fellow members of the Night’s Watch have inquired about the Lord Commander since his injury, how much Jaime is respected and adored, and he does not even seem to realize it.

His eyebrows rise in warning, surveying her with surprise. His chin juts out, lips parted, like he wishes to devour her more than chastise her. “Say what you desire, Lady Brienne.” 

“You are a good leader. That hasn’t changed, but they need to see you are invested in them, even in some small way. Everyone respects you.” Her voice is gentle. “But they want to know that you respect them as well.”

He shifts in his chair, regarding her almost as he had when she first arrived, with a dismissive look in his eye. “But things have changed. My hand-”

She interrupts him again, growing irritated. “Did you only believe yourself to be a good leader because of your sword hand?” His self-pity has pushed her to frustration. She wants to shake him. To make him see, make him understand. “You are not your right hand, Jaime.”

“It is the hand that slew the King,” he replies bitterly. “That led me to this place.”

“That was only a deed, a part of you! You are _more_ than that.” 

She falls quiet, aware she may have pushed too far and too quickly, but then there is the sound of chair legs scraping across the floor as Jaime rises and kisses her. Almost as soon as his mouth meets hers, his confidence falters, and he pulls back. “But you, you deserve better than…” He gestures to his stump. 

She shakes her head, incredulous, tears pricking at her eyes. “How can you say that?” Brienne takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself. “I want _you_. Please.” Soft and compliant, isn’t that what men wanted? 

Her whole body burns for him. He searches her face, hesitant. Her breathing is shallow, waiting for his touch to ignite her. It saddens her, seeing how Jaime truly believes he is not worthy of her. So it is Brienne who reaches for him. 

“It’s all I’ve wanted.” She places her hand on his right shoulder and slides it slowly down the length of his arm, stopping before reaching his stump. His eyes ignite at her touch, making it impossible to tear her gaze away. “May I?” Brienne asks and he nods. Ever so gently, she traces her fingertips over the scars, Jaime shivering. “Does that hurt?”

“No,” he murmurs. “But my arm...it does always tingle a little.” 

“Tell me if I’m hurting you.” Brienne carefully takes his right arm in both of her hands and lowers her head, bending to press a light kiss to his stump. 

Jaime sucks in a breath over his teeth, “Brienne.” His voice is heavy with desire, making her eyes fly open, and then their bodies are coming together, so quickly they collide, breath knocked out of them for a moment before his lips hungrily capture hers, kissing her as if she is his lifeline.

He dips his head and Brienne sighs happily as his beard creates a pleasant sensation along the soft skin of her neck as Jaime lavishes attention there. But she wants this to be about him, so she tugs at the collar of his tunic until he straightens, a confused look on his face. “Consider this your night off, Lord Commander,” she informs him, voice dipping low. “I am in charge in your stead.”

“You don’t have to.” Jaime says, but his breath is already ragged. He leans forward to playfully nip at her mouth, even as she tries to unlace his jerkin. 

“I want to,” she insists, but he presses into her with a searing kiss, one which makes her grip the front of his jerkin, a gasp in her throat as his tongue slips into her mouth. He’s caught her off guard and his weight leaning into her causes her to take a step back, then another, until they are tumbling towards the hard stone of the fireplace, Jaime’s hand comes up to cushion the back of her head as they slam into the hearth. Brienne reaches for his breeches, hurriedly untying the laces, his skin jumping underneath her touch, eyelids fluttering closed. “I want to make you feel good,” she grits out against his mouth.

“You do,” he replies, breath hiccuping, as he nods eagerly, already succumbing to her control. “You always do.” 

She can see the outline of his cock through the fabric and licks her lips, glancing up to meet Jaime’s gaze, his look of uninhibited hunger causing a thrill to run through her. Brienne thinks about pushing his pants down and falling to her knees. Her eyes flick back down to the bulge, then up to him. The muscles in his throat constrict and release as he swallows. Slowly, she presses her hand over the front of his breeches, making Jaime’s head fall back in pleasure, a groan escaping his lips. 

“Brienne,” he warns. 

She presses her lips to the shell of his ear and whispers, “Not yet.” 

“Fuck,” he whines. The soft leather of his jerkin brushes against her tunic and he’s gripping her hip so hard it may bruise as he trails his hot mouth down her neck, his beard bristling against her skin. 

She wants to give in, to tip her head and allow him, but instead threads her fingers through his hair and pulls him off of her. “That is not proper form, _Ser_ ,” Brienne says teasingly, as if they are out in the training yard. 

Jaime growls, snapping at her like a wild animal, his left hand grabbing her ass and spinning her away from the fireplace, Brienne surprised at the force. Tangled together, they tumble backwards again, only this time Jaime’s hips land against the mattress, right where she wanted him. She divests them of the rest of their clothing and her eyes rake over his body, murmuring lowly with approval. He wears a pleading expression and she kisses him as her fingertips begin to trace the lines of his chest. Her mouth on his skin, tongue and lips and teeth, his body and breath trembling underneath her. She takes her time, content to explore. He is so good at finding what she enjoys, what brings her pleasure, and Brienne wants to do the same for him. 

The corded muscle, sinew, and veins of his arms, the hollows of his throat and shoulders. Lowers to her knees, her name already on his lips. When she begins to trace her tongue along one of the deep lines on either side of his abdominal muscles, Jaime’s hand fists in her hair. “Are you trying to kill me?” he asks, gravel in his voice, but she only smiles against his skin. He runs his fingers through her hair as her mouth finds a small scar on the right side she’s never noticed before and kisses it gently. Her name is needier, a rasp in his throat, as she continues to take her time, mouth trailing down his body. “I want to taste you.” 

And _yes_. She wants it, too. Blood singing, heat surging down her spine. He moves back onto the bed and she scrambles after him, a contented grunt as she settles on top for a moment, taking in his darkened eyes. She starts to lift herself from his lap, but he surprises her, his hand catching behind her knee, pulling her towards his mouth, then shifting them on to their sides. Her legs are bent around his head and Jaime kisses the inside of her thighs agonizingly slowly. Brienne uncurls her upper body, his groin near her face, and takes his cock in her hand. He moans something against her skin, and she pauses, her hand wrapped around him, white hot and twitching. The soft scratch of his beard is enough to drive her to madness, so achingly close to the spot between her legs which is swollen with need. “I want-” She starts, thinking she will have to demand it from him, as he is still teasing her with his lips, his hot breath, but then his tongue slips inside her and her whole body ripples with pleasure. He cries out, his voice buzzing against her wet folds, only adding to the overwhelming sensations of the friction of his beard and the eagerness of his tongue. Her grip on him loosens because she can hardly think or breathe or move when his mouth is on her. “ _Jaime_.” 

Brienne braces a hand on his leg, nuzzling into the divot just below his hip but above the curling patch of hair between his legs, smelling his scent, desire building within her, before taking him in her mouth, eliciting a deep groan from Jaime. She swirls her tongue around the head of his cock, her other hand exploring, putting pressure at the base of his shaft and bringing her lips to meet it. When his whole body trembles under her, she grips his thigh, holding him flush against her, but all the while, the sensation of his mouth and tongue makes her gasp for breath around his cock. Her legs begin to tremble and tighten around his head and she has to release him then, burying her cries against his skin, and he holds her legs tightly, letting her waves crash around him. 

Then he is crawling up her body, a self-satisfied smirk curling up the sides of his mouth. She laughs, but reaches for him, cradling his face in her palm. “I wanted to take care of you.” 

“Brienne, all you do is take care of me.” His eyes soften, a sadness at the edge of them.

She kisses him, long and slow, making him hum lowly. “I like it,” she whispers, pressing another kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

“Then show me.” His eyebrows arch, a teasing demand. “Because I have a number of ideas.” 

Possibilities race through Brienne’s mind, but since he brought her screaming over the edge moments before, it seems only fair if... She reaches down between them, taking his swollen cock in her hand, Jaime gasping and biting his lip. When she rubs her thumb over the tip, he grasps the sheets in his fist. Brienne starts to lower herself down his body, content to finish what she started earlier, but his hand lands on the back of her head, making her pause. “I want...” he trails off hoarsely, swallowing before he continues. “I _need_ you to fuck me.” 

“Are you sure? I can-” 

“ _Brienne._ ” He growls, pulling at her until she is sitting up on her knees and swinging her long leg over his body. She settles down on his lap and rests her knees on either side of his hips, his cock stiff against her ass. The way he is looking at her, she wants to keep tucked safely away for always. He reaches up to trace her cheek with his thumb, dragging it across her lower lip. She wraps her fingers around his fist, pausing for a long moment, before opening her mouth and sucking on his thumb, then adding another finger. Jaime’s own mouth falls open as he watches, eyes a haze of heat and want, his voice strained and desperate, “Please.” 

She lifts herself, thighs shaking with anticipation, and as his hips meet hers, filling her, he lets out a low noise of contentment. He feels so good that she doesn’t want to move. “Jaime,” she cries breathily, arching her back. His hand presses at the small of her back guiding her to lean down, but instead Brienne pins his arms down to the bed. 

Fire flashes in his eyes. “Fuck,” he murmurs, his chin jutting out. “I love how strong you are.” She rolls her hips, watching his face. His body trembles and shudders under hers, accompanied by affirmations, curses, her name whispered as she fucks him. 

Their bodies are damp and slick with sweat, Jaime’s mouth and teeth on her breasts, her cries growing breathy and high as she clenches and releases around him. Every time she rolls her hips into him, he hits her at the right angle, making her lose her gasp. She moves faster, needing the release, Brienne momentarily afraid she might crush him. Her legs start to shake and then Jaime snaps his hips up into hers and she falls over the edge again, her whole body spasming as he clutches her close, a long, low moan into her neck as he finishes. 

She slips off his lap, landing on her side beside him as they both gulp air, chests heaving, Jaime managing an emphatic, “ _Fuck_.” Her hand falls to the back of his head, fingertips brushing through the hair at the nape of his neck. “I’m a fool,” he murmurs into her shoulder. 


	14. a confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As they lie quietly together, Jaime practically purring in her ear, a bevy of questions runs through her mind. He holds her as if she is some small, delicate thing, words which have never been used to describe the Maid of Tarth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to forbiddenfantasies for looking at this for me. 
> 
> NSFW.

_“I’m a fool.”_

Jaime props himself on his elbow to look at her, his pupils still wide with desire, and presses several long, lazy kisses to her lips. “Gods, I missed you.” 

“You did? I thought…” Brienne trails off, uncertain how to articulate how much she cares for him. She wants more than to warm his bed occasionally, longs to know him, to trust him. 

“Yes, I--when you dress me, touch me, it’s all I can think of for the rest of the day.”

“ _Oh._ ” She tucks her chin, eyes falling to his hand trailing gently across her skin, happiness surging through her. “I missed you, too.” Brienne is scared to lift her eyes to his, but Jaime responds by leaning in and capturing her lips with his. “I--I thought you didn’t want me,” she confesses when they break apart. 

“Oh, Brienne,” he tells her emphatically, tugging her closer, even though their bodies are already pressed together tightly, limbs tangled, skin still damp with sweat. “I am sorry. I’ve been so caught up in my own despair. You have been far too forgiving and patient with me. It’s more than I deserve.” His thumb strokes softly at the inside of her wrist. “I want you here. “You think I don’t want to grab you and kiss you anytime you’re near? Because I can assure you, I most certainly do.” 

“Jaime,” she protests, but there’s a smile on her face. His eyes are bright, his face relaxed and open. The last time she saw him look this happy, he was watching her take in the ocean at Eastwatch. 

His breath is warm on her cheek, then tickles her ear as he whispers, “I want you, Brienne.” He kisses her again and she sighs against his mouth, relieved, arms wrapping around his shoulders. They stay tangled together for a long time, kissing and murmuring and laughing. “I still have the flagon of wine. Would you like some, my lady?” 

It must be late and her face drops realizing it is late. “I would like to join you, but I should return to my room.” 

Jaime clenches his jaw, then juts out his chin, his eyes slowly traveling down the length of her naked body beside him. “I’m afraid that goes against the Lord Commander’s orders, Lady Brienne.” 

“Is that so?” she raises her eyebrow and he nods, licking his lips. His hand on her hip tugs her flush against him, beard brushing along her neck as he kisses her, and Brienne makes an approving noise in the back of her throat. She gives herself over to him in a matter of moments as his mouth trails down her neck, teeth nipping at the tendons there, tongue dipping into the hollows of her collarbone and lapping at the notch at the bottom of her neck. Her hands run through his hair, sighing as he moves lower still, mouth closing over her breast, teeth clenching around her nipple until she gasps. “I’ll consider your orders, ser,” she murmurs, her tone light, even as he moves to her other breast, his mouth making her whimper. 

Only then does he raise his head, gaze meeting hers, and asks, “Will you stay?” 

From nearly the first moment she laid eyes on him, she’s felt a heady rush of desire, a heat between them, but now his eyes are so vulnerable, so full of hope, their connection blossoming into something deeper. Fragile in each other’s hands. She nods and pulls him in for a kiss, fingertips stroking along his beard and Jaime makes a soft sound of contentment which plucks at her heart. 

They will spend their lives in this liminal space, _marking time_ , as Jaime said, so while there are questions about how they will be able to be together--after months of him insisting it’s against the rules--she focuses instead on their happiness, all too rare at the Wall.

*

Brienne blinks against the sunlight streaming into the window and startles upon realizing she is not in her own bed. There’s a soft chuckle next to her and she turns to see Jaime already awake and smirking at her. “Did I frighten you?” 

“No,” she shakes her head, blush blooming in her cheeks. “For a moment I did not remember where I was, that’s all.”

He leans in to press a gentle kiss to her lips. “Good morning.” 

“Morning.” They are both quiet for a long moment, Brienne taking him in, bathed in the early light. There appears to be more gray in his beard than there was only a few weeks ago and she reaches up to run her fingertips along his jaw, him humming at her touch. “Are you certain it’s okay for me to be here?” she asks, voice hushed. “What if someone needs you?” 

He shifts onto his side to look at her and skims his hand along the sheet covering her body. “The only person who visits my chambers this early is my steward and I can assure you she will not be interrupting us.” His hand lands at her hip, tracing small circles over the cloth.

Brienne laughs, but objects. “Not your chambers, ser. I would meet you in the sparring yard instead.” 

“Did I not show you sparring last evening, my lady?” Jaime asks, a smirk pulling at his lips. He presses closer to her and she can feel his half hard cock against her leg. “But my sword is quite ready for your handling.” 

“ _Jaime._ ” He chuckles and pulls her on top of him so he can kiss her, fingers on her cheek, threading through her hair. His hand falls to the back of her neck, cupping it lightly, as his teeth nip at her lower lip, Brienne moaning and opening her mouth to his. His hips twitch slightly under her and she slides her legs wider, rocking her hips ever so slightly against his, a slow ribbon of pleasure uncurling in her stomach at Jaime’s low growl. There is one thing which she did not get to do last night, at least not to completion, and she smiles at the thought of his reaction. 

“What are you smirking about, you wanton woman?” he teases her, grinning, before softly biting down on her shoulder. His hand cups her breast, his thumb stroking across her nipple, then moves his mouth to it, his hot breath making her arch away from him, but he holds her in place, tongue laving at her until she is whimpering underneath him. When he moves to her right side, his neck is perfectly exposed before her, and she places open-mouthed kisses along the tendons there, his pulse jumping against her lips. She is enjoying his attentions, but grows impatient, wiggling in his lap, making him suck in a breath against her skin. “Brienne,” he warns, voice dipping low, buzzing along her skin. Jaime straightens, his eyes bright with longing. 

She tips forward to place a quick kiss on his nose, then moves off him, Jaime hurriedly pushing the bedclothes back so he can watch her. Settling between his legs, she presses up onto her knees and places an open-mouthed kiss to his lower abdomen. He sighs underneath her, his hand working into her hair, brushing strands back from her face, and it makes Brienne smile against him. She slips her tongue along his skin, tracing the outline of his muscles, his skin jumping under her touch. When she glances up at Jaime, his eyes are heavy lidded, but trained on her, hoping he can see her smile. His cock lays against his stomach, barely an inch from her face, but she ignores it for now, continuing her path with her mouth. She nips at the scar on his right side and nuzzles the trail of hair pointing down, taking in his scent as his hand fists in her hair, tugging a little impatiently. Brienne laughs against his skin. She’s getting there. “I am at your service, Lord Commander,” she whispers, before touching him. His hips twitch and he lets out a deep guttural sound. 

She takes him into her mouth, flattening her tongue, and hollowing out her cheeks. His fingers thread through her hair, his jaw falling slack when Brienne glances up at him. “You’re so good,” he mumbles, watching as she begins to move her mouth up and down his shaft, taking in as much of him as she can and then sliding back up until he nearly slips from her mouth. She repeats this several times until his hips are shaking underneath her. “Fuck,” he moans, tipping his head back. She swirls her tongue around the tip and he arches his back, but she quickly pins his hip to the bed with her other hand. Brienne lowers her head, repeating her movements but taking even more of him into her mouth this time, making Jaime groan and fist his hand in her hair. “Brienne, I-” His body arches as his release comes and she keeps him in her mouth and swallows. As he recovers himself, his fingers stroking her hair, Brienne glances up at him, wanting to make sure he’s watching, as she licks him clean. Jaime’s throat bobs, his voice hoarse when he tells her, “Good girl.” 

Her chest swells with pride and satisfaction at his praise as she rises to lie beside him and he kisses her, hand smoothing down her shoulder, the length of her torso, before landing at her hip. He squeezes gently, a thanks or a claim, and she would be happy with either. 

Jaime traces small circles with his fingertips at her hip, their kisses continuing, unable to part from each other for even a moment. Her whole body is humming, utterly and completely consumed by him, and when his warm fingers grip around her thigh, she sighs happily against him. His hand moves lower, anticipation beginning to pulse through her, as she widens her legs, allowing him access. “Yes,” she encourages and he chuckles against her mouth, but his laughter shifts into a low groan as his fingers slip between her folds. 

“Gods,” he growls. “Taking my cock in your mouth makes you this wet?” He sucks on her lower lip and the sensation of his mouth and his fingers makes her clutch at him, her nails digging into his shoulder blades. “Is this all for me?” 

“Yes,” she hisses and he grunts against her jaw. Jaime watches her give herself over to him with half-lidded eyes, hot breaths exchanged between them as he strokes her, inching closer to her clit before pulling away again. Teasing, her body shuddering helplessly under his touch. “You feel so good.” She isn’t sure if she means the weight of him on her tongue or the way he makes her lose all control. “Jaime,” she whimpers. 

“I love the way you say my name.” His voice is gravelly and deep, every syllable scraping against her skin in the most delicious way until she can’t resist anymore and grinds against his hand.

“Please,” she begs, her arms gripping him tightly, needing release. 

Ever so carefully he shifts the pressure to her clit and she screams against his shoulder. Jaime makes a noise in his throat. “Seven hells, Brienne. I wanted you from the moment you stepped in my chambers. Did you know that?” His breath is hot against her ear, teeth biting softly at her neck. “I wanted to know what it would be like to slip between your thighs, feel them wrapped around me.” 

“Fuck, Jaime,” she pants. “Fuck. _Please._ ” 

“I want to try something.” 

Her eyes fly open, confused and annoyed. “ _Now_?” 

He is wearing a smug smile, one which she vows to wipe off his face the next time they are in the sparring yard, but his green eyes darken with hunger. “Yes, _now_.” His fingers have slowed, but still flicker over her folds softly, making her shiver. “I want you to sit across me like you do when you fuck me, but…” He trails off, hand slipping out of her, and points to his mouth.

Her eyes widen. “Oh.” 

She hesitates and Jaime’s face falls. “We don’t have to. I just thought you might like it.” 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she says quietly. “I’m heavy.” 

“You are not,” he insists. “You’re glorious, Brienne, and I would be a happy man to die between your thighs.” 

His words get the better of her and she blushes but laughs, kissing him. “So how would I...?”

“Come here.” He lies on his back, gesturing to his chest. As Brienne rises onto her knees, Jaime takes her hand in his and helps to guide her. She rests her weight on her legs, holding herself over him. 

“Are you sure?” But then his left hand is wrapping around her thigh and pulling her to his mouth and the brush of his beard and _oh gods_. She is achingly wet from before, but Jaime seems to like it, licking and sucking. The things his tongue are doing makes her want to hold down his head and take her pleasure from him, and the sensations pulsing through her make her both want to move and never move again. His mouth is right there and her whole body is on fire. “Fuck.” 

His hand is still clutched around her thigh and his stump is pressed tight against her ass, but every time the soft scrape of his beard slices through her, she wildly reaches out for something which might support her. She grips onto the headboard, thankful it is within reach, and lets herself sink down onto him even further. Jaime makes a sound of approval and his voice vibrating against her curls her whole body forwards, her cries breathy and low. Glancing down, he is buried in her, eyes bright and euphoric, and it releases something within her, feral and selfish. This man is _hers_ and she wants _more more please Jaime_. 

She threads her hands into his hair then, begging him. His nose presses into her and he sucks at her clit and her hips are bucking against his face as she shudders, waves hitting her hard and fast, gasping his name. 

Her body feels light and heavy all at once and she collapses, spine curled forward, head resting against the headboard as she tries to catch her breath. His thumb brushes the inside of her thigh ever so gently, making her shiver, but she slowly rolls off of him. With shaky limbs, she settles down beside him to find Jaime’s face and beard wet, and she laughs, a strange sensation when so many others are still snaking and pulsing through her. But she kisses him, tasting the tang of herself before he whispers, “I was right, you are glorious.” 

He gets up, striding across the room to fetch a cloth to clean himself, asking if she needs it as well before he crawls back into bed, content to twine his body with hers as her senses slowly come back to her. 

As they lie quietly together, Jaime practically purring in her ear, a bevy of questions runs through her mind. He holds her as if she is some small, delicate thing, words which have never been used to describe the Maid of Tarth. 

“Jaime?” she asks, her voice soft and low. 

“Hmm?” he murmurs against her back, his beard brushing over her shoulder blade, his voice humming against her skin. 

“How is this going to work?” His fingers press into her waist and he sighs into his shoulder. “It’s still dangerous, isn’t it? If anyone finds out?” 

“Yes,” he replies and a guilt rises up in her throat, knowing they might be stripped from each other at any moment. “I will not lie to you, that has not changed. But if it was not clear by now, I want to be with you.” 

At Eastwatch, it felt like they were being monitored, which became another level of unease added on top of her worry over Jaime’s well-being. She loves being with him, but Brienne isn’t certain she’ll be able to handle the ever present anxiety, which is a reality of their situation. “Did you mean what you said?” 

“When?”

“Earlier,” she blushes, unable to say. “About the first night I came to your chambers?”

“Yes,” he hisses in her ear. 

“Me too. I-I kept imagining…” Her face burns at the memory. 

“Lady Brienne.” His cheeks lift as a lascivious smile stretches slowly across his face and a small laugh escapes his lips. “You must tell me.” 

She raises an eyebrow. “Is that a demand, Lord Commander?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to the Jaime/Brienne fic exchange coming up (Aug. 6-22!), I am not going to be posting new chapters for 2-3 weeks, so everyone can enjoy the 100+ new fics we're about to have. Thank you all for your patience!


	15. an interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When she walks into his chambers that night, he is waiting for her. The nervous anticipation on his face makes her heart swell, and he steps towards her swiftly, murmuring, “I thought of you all day.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swore I wasn't going to post this until next week, but oh well. My classes have started back up (yay grad school), so I am not sure how long it will take me to get up the last couple chapters. I hope it will be worth the wait. Thank you for your continued support of this story!

She tarries too long in his room. Jaime has already discovered how his hands, mouth, tongue render her speechless, other than the cries she emits. The way he watches her, so intently, as if mapping each point of her pleasure, maddens her. Her hands twisting in the sheets, body curling around him. _Yes yes Jaime yes_.

By the time she leaves his bed, the sun is well into the sky. Heart pounding in her chest, she keeps a watchful eye and ear on her surroundings, lest she run into someone on the way back to her room. 

Brienne changes clothes and goes about her morning routine, the thrill of desire continuing to pulse through her veins and pound under her skin. It’s impossible to stop thinking about Jaime. Before, their relationship was heated, heady, and exciting for its illicitness, but now a wall between them has been felled, tenderness and awe emerging, every touch imbued with something deeper and stronger. Last night, it was further heightened by his words, the ones he whispered in her ear and the easy way he declared his intentions for them moving forward.

She has brought his meals to his chambers hundreds of times before, but upon turning down the long corridor to his room, her stomach flutters with nervousness. If he is alone, will he act as her superior or will he draw her close and kiss her? The shift in their relationship leaves her uncertain how she should proceed. Brienne steadies herself, knocking before entering, and is relieved when she finds the Lord Commander meeting with Maester Aemon. 

The maester has the metal hand ready and is lacing up the stays for Jaime. She should leave, but instead watches, admiring the craftsmanship of the hand. While it is a gray metal, utilitarian, the fingers are etched with careful design. “I can help, Maester,” she offers. 

Jaime’s gaze falls to her, his eyebrow shooting up for a moment. “Yes, let my steward help. You have already gone to great lengths to have this crafted for me. I shall not take up more of your time.” He tosses a quick wink at Brienne and her cheeks begin to burn. 

“Well, alright, my child.” The maester gestures for Brienne to step in. He points out the leather stays and where each is hooked into the metal of the hand. “I shall leave you to it then,” he says. “If you need further assistance, I am always glad to provide, Lord Commander Lannister.” Aemon bows his head at Jaime and takes his leave. 

“I never knew you were quite so wily, Tarth.” A slow smile spreads across his face and Brienne’s body floods with warmth. 

“What do you mean? I am here to help.” She finishes tying the stays on his hand and looks up to find his green eyes shining with admiration. 

“You take such good care of me.” Jaime whispers before clearing his throat. “What do you think?” He holds the hand out for her examination. “Does it suit me?” 

Brienne wants to tell him there is nothing wrong with his stump, but he seems so proud of this metal limb. “It’s quite fine.” Her fingertips reach out to trace the etchings. “The details are lovely.” 

“Not as lovely as you,” he replies, his voice dipping low. “And it means I have two hands to hold you with.” Jaime reaches for her, the new hand heavy against her waist as he draws her in for a kiss. 

She loves the way his lips linger on hers, ever so lightly, and then needing more, tongue and teeth. Brienne knows they shouldn’t, but allows him to walk her backwards until they reach the bed. 

“It seems I cannot get enough of you, my lady,” he murmurs against her mouth. Brienne laughs, but he presses her against the edge of the mattress, drawing a gasp from her throat. 

“Jaime.” It is meant to be a protest, but it is a rather weak one, her hands gripping the thick doublet he wears, pulling him in for another kiss. 

She can feel him half hard and pressed against her, the soft sound in her throat shifting into a whine. “Would you allow me to take you right here?” his breath tickles her ear, the low tenor of his voice making her shiver. “Bend you over the bed and…” Brienne gasps and he trails off as he kisses the soft shell of her ear. She remembers how much she wanted that exact thing, those first weeks as his steward. Could imagine it, even as she went about her duties. 

Their bodies slide against each other, the friction from their clothing only increasing her desire. “Yes,” she whispers in between their increasingly frantic kisses. Brienne grips his hips for purchase so she doesn’t fall back onto the mattress, but it elicits a low moan from him. “I want you.” 

His hand cups her breast, thumb circling her nipple through her tunic. Just as it seems they are about to tip onto the bed, Jaime pulls away with a frustrated, strangled sound. “Gods.” He reaches down, trying to adjust his breeches, and Brienne cannot help but laugh. His eyes flash at her, but his mouth draws into a teasing smile. “You wicked woman, laughing at me.” 

She crosses to him and drops a chaste kiss on his lips, before her eyes flick down to his _situation_. “I could assist you, if you like,” her voice hums low, her hand pressing slowly against his chest. 

Jaime’s eyebrows raise in surprise and he stutters, “I--there is nothing I would like more, my lady. But if I allowed that, I would need you for other...duties as well. And I do not wish to occupy your whole day.” 

_Maybe I wish to be_. But he is right, they have already gotten carried away, so she only kisses him again, a long, lingering kiss, before she leaves him alone in his chambers. 

Brienne spends most of her day caught in a fantasy, scarcely noticing her surroundings, trying to smother the smile on her face whenever she has to enter the Lord Commander’s chambers or meetings, but always noting how Jaime’s gaze follows her across the room. It sends a frisson of excitement down her spine and she has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep herself from reacting. 

*

When she walks into his chambers that night, he is waiting for her. The nervous anticipation on his face makes her heart swell, and he steps towards her swiftly, murmuring, “I thought of you all day.” 

She means to say the same in return, but then his lips are on hers and she cannot think, because all of the feelings and thoughts she has been swallowing all day are released and rush to the surface. They tear at each other’s clothes, Brienne’s breeches around her ankles, and Jaime’s jerkin and tunic tossed over his head in one motion. His hands on her hips, his left warm, but the right hand’s metal cold and heavy. She likes him better without it, but she does not want to bruise his ego, not when they can scarcely wait. Lips and teeth nip at skin and sinew, gasps and low whimpers, and then she bends over the bed, his hand on her lower back and sliding up her spine, making her shiver under his touch. “Brienne.” Her name is reverent on his lips, but there is a question there, too. Permission. 

“Yes, please,” she whines, already wet and wanting. His cock slides against her cunt, teasing her before pulling away. Jaime grasps her hips, and as he enters her, they both release moans, a faint _fuck_ following on his end. As he pulls out and pushes in again, the sensation wrings out a long cry from her. It makes her nearly feral, crying and twisting her hands in the sheets as he thrusts into her. “More,” she rasps. 

“Seven hells,” he grunts, slowing for a moment, but still thrusting lightly as he sprawls across her back, peppering her skin with kisses before he picks up the pace again. She has to stifle her noises into a pillow. The pressure and the way he drives in and draws out of her pushes Brienne to the edge every time until she is begging him for release. He hooks his arm around her waist, pulling her up until Brienne’s back is flush against his chest, his beard burning against her cheek. “The whole castle can hear you, my lady,” he drawls, the heat of his breath delicious against her ear. “It’s driving me mad. But I _want_ them to hear.” His hand slides down her stomach, his fingers stroking her clit as she scrabbles against him, whimpering and crying like a wild animal, the long length of muscle in her legs contracting, aching for release. Brienne shifts her hips against his in frustration, trying to encourage him to move. “I want them to hear how I make you sound.” But it is Jaime whose breath stutters as she pushes her hips back into him the same moment he thrusts into her. “Again,” he demands, letting her go so she can brace her forearms against the mattress and drive her hips into him again. The room becomes full of the sound of their skin slapping against each other, his low grunts, and the needy words which fall from her lips. She can barely comprehend her own high pitched cries as he makes her come a few minutes later, her legs trembling as he finishes with a sated groan, and his body slouches against hers. “Fuck,” he murmurs into her neck, a soft laugh humming against her skin. Jaime straightens, pulling her up off the mattress, and grips her hip with his good hand, giving a short, light slap to her ass before they collapse into bed. 

Her heart is pounding, chest still rising and falling rapidly, but he rolls onto his side to face her. Brienne runs her hand over the planes of his chest, slightly damp from sweat, fingertips skimming through his chest hair. “I wasn’t expecting _that_ ,” she sighs and he chuckles. Her voice falls to a whisper. “Am I too loud? If someone heard us...” 

“No,” he insists, dropping a kiss to her shoulder. “I love it. I love making you _mine_.” It makes her blush, color rising up in her chest, which Jaime obligingly kisses, tracing freckles with his tongue, until she is flat on her back, and his hand is between her thighs again. His smile is smug. “Are you going to be good, Brienne?” She whimpers, but nods eagerly, giving herself over to him, submitting willingly. He uses his mouth and his fingers to push her over the edge again, her legs clutching around him as her back arches off the mattress, her whole body shuddering with pleasure. 

Afterwards he kisses her and holds her close, nose pressed into her shoulder. The cold metal of his hand slides against her skin and even though she is already drifting off to sleep, Brienne says he shouldn’t keep it on all night. “Here,” she rolls over and begins to undo the stays, gently removing the hand. Angry red marks are mottled across his wrist. The metal has aggravated his stump. “Jaime,” she breathes, glancing up at him. He is biting his lip, likely against the sting of the air on his skin. “Was it hurting earlier?” For a long moment he doesn’t say anything, but she runs her hand across his beard, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. “You do not need to wear it for me.” 

“I want to be able to hold you properly.” 

She always feels safe and secure in Jaime’s arms, no matter the number. “You already do.” Brienne sweeps her thumb slowly across the scars on his wrist and he flinches. “You cannot wear your hand so often, it irritates the skin.” Her tone quickly shifts into the caregiver role she has so easily fallen into since he lost his hand. There is no line anymore between her duties as steward and her feelings for him. The metal appendage gave Jaime a sense of wholeness and upon hearing her instructions, she expects him to object, but he does not, yet another indication of how much pain it likely is causing him. “Tomorrow we will speak to the maester about this.” When she glances up, his eyes are aglow with warmth. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Her heart flutters at Jaime treating her so gently. 

* 

**_A few weeks later_ **

They’ve taken to practicing near the godswood. Very few of the brothers use it for prayers and no one is there so early in the day. 

Jaime has gotten stronger the past few weeks and learns to adapt his footwork for his left hand. When fighting, he still has a tendency to leave his body exposed and has taken to wearing a gambeson during their sessions, accusing Brienne of often leaving him with a smattering of bruises, which she soothes with her lips when they’re alone. 

But it is _his_ mouth she is thinking about as Jaime steps into her and catches her off guard. He clicks his tongue in admonishment as he continues to drive her backwards, afraid at any moment she will back into a tree. “You are far away this morning, Lady Brienne,” his voice singsongs. “Shall we start again?” 

“No,” she grits out between blocking his blows. “No real opponent will give you the advantage of being prepared.” Jaime dances on the balls of his feet, lithe and athletic, a fire in his eyes. Not long after he lost his hand, he told her the battlefield is where he always felt most alive. She wishes she could have seen him at his height, for he is beautiful now, even one handed and beaten down by the world, but then, _then_ , he must have been effortless, all flashing teeth and golden hair. 

He is pressing into her as he never has before, not even when he had two hands. He is heavy, his blows hard and continuous. Brienne grunts with the effort of holding him off and then Jaime springs back, circling her, crouched like some animal about to attack its prey. When they meet again, it’s more even-handed, there’s a push and pull. Brienne forgets his injury, any potential weakness, incensed by the bright fire burning in his eyes, his taunting gaze, the way the tip of his tongue gets caught in the corner of his mouth sometimes as he parries. “Yield to me, Lady Brienne,” he tells her, half mocking, but his voice slides low, towards erotic. 

Jaime smirks, knowing full well the effect of his words, and in that moment, she forgets Ser Goodwin’s advice. She charges towards him, her arms lifting in a large arching blow, but catlike, he springs out of the way, and tackles Brienne to the ground. They roll down a slight incline, a tangle of limbs, and when they slide to a stop, it is she who has the upper hand. Without a moment to spare, she pins his arms to the ground, her chest heaving as she leans over him. “Do you yield, ser?” But Jaime only smiles gleefully, and kicks like a wild animal caught in a trap, trying to loosen her grip. She doesn’t have a choice except to throw her leg over his hips and sit on him. 

“My lady, you will stop at nothing.” His words slide so sweetly off his tongue, yet his rakish grin gives away his underlying intentions. He presses his hips up into her, where she can feel him hard against her. 

“ _Jaime_.” She warns, but can’t help the soft laugh which escapes her lips. His eyes only burn darker and hunger begins to thrum within her. 

She has come to his room almost every night the past few weeks. As they lie together, tangled in the darkness, they talk of plans which will never come to fruition. Words and promises so real, Brienne can feel the weight of them in her hands, yet they whisper away as easily as the cloud of hot breath on a cold morning. 

“Here?” he asks, face hopeful, running his tongue along his lower lip. She leans forward to kiss him, chuckling against his mouth. The knees of her breeches are soaked through from the snow and Jaime’s back half is likely much the same. Brienne rises off of him, reaching down to pull him up. As soon as he’s standing on his feet, he presses a hard kiss to her mouth before her lips part and allow his tongue. “What do you want, Brienne?” he asks when they break apart.

“I think I’d like to be somewhere warm,” she confesses, nipping at his mouth. 

He laughs and tightens his arms around her, stroking her back, trying to warm her. “Alright,” he replies in her ear. Jaime reaches for her hand, his palm warm against hers until they reach the edge of the godswood. 


	16. the tides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> None of this is yours. The thought rises as sudden as an unexpected wave, the type which makes your stomach sink, because there is not enough time to get out of its way before it sucks you underneath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thanks to brynnmck who talked me through the emotional beats of this chapter, and a special thanks to forbiddenfantasies for always being a supportive friend.

In a sennight, the leaders of the Wall will arrive at Castle Black. Cotter Pyke, Benjen Stark, and Denys Mallister. The Lord Commander will be meeting and entertaining the men from dawn to dusk, which means no sparring with his steward, and no nights spent together in his chambers.The impending visit has jarred both of them out of the sanctuary they’d found, reminding Brienne of the temporal quality of their connection. 

In the week before the men arrive, she draws away from Jaime in his bed. Even when she is not beside him, her thoughts do not settle. When she closes her eyes and tries to imagine a future for them, there is only darkness. 

As the visit draws closer, Jaime grows more cantankerous, yet Brienne is busier than ever with various chores and missives. One morning, she is summoned to his chambers, arriving rather breathlessly from several other tasks, but he only stands in the middle of the room, smirking at her. “What?” she asks impatiently. 

“Come,” he says simply. Perhaps he has noticed how distant she has been recently, because his eyes examine her face carefully. There are things they have not spoken of, and the leaders’ visit to Castle Black has cast them starkly in Brienne’s mind, yet she is unwilling to cross the breach first.

“I am quite busy, ser,” she retorts, without even thinking about it, knowing she is free from any form of menial punishment. 

A sentencing of the carnal nature is not out of the question, however, and Jaime’s eyes mirror her thoughts. The familiar heat in his gaze flickers to life. “Is that any way to act in front of your Lord Commander?” 

“Jaime, we can’t,” she whispers, glancing towards the door as if someone may burst in at any moment. A tightness rises in her chest, the longevity of their relationship a reality which they can no longer escape from. As much as she would like nothing more than to stay locked in here with him for days, it is a fantasy. 

“I have a request of you,” he offers, drawing out his words slowly, trying to entice her. It did not take Brienne long to recognize Jaime’s preference for words. He uses them to spar, a way to tease and provoke her, both when he is her superior and when he is only hers. More and more, she realizes how much he hides his real meaning, his true feelings in them. But now any uneasiness in his gaze is swept away as he gestures at the table behind her, a smile pulling at his lips. She turns to see tools she recognizes. “I thought you might help me look presentable. A Lord Commander must always look the part, you know.” There is a twinkle in his eye, but a cool acceptance in his tone, speaking to his own uncertainty. Even though it has been many weeks since the loss of his hand, Jaime still doubts himself more often than he used to, and Brienne is the only one who sees his misgivings about his abilities or his worries about how others view him as a leader.

When she first arrived, Jaime’s bare cheeks made him look youthful. The openness of his face might goad someone into believing him trustworthy and then the sharp jawline would slash them to the bone. Brienne had disliked him, was skeptical of his intentions, despite the way his eyes sought hers. The first time desire consumed them, she thought it would be the last. And every time after, she wondered if it would be the end of it, at least until these last few weeks, when she fooled herself into believing they could be happy. There was no sense of normalcy for them. It was never a possibility. No future years to be lived out together happily. She would never stand in a sept next to this man. She would never call him her husband. 

Brienne steps forward, her fingertips reaching for his beard. Jaime’s face lights up at her touch, and she steps closer, the heat from his body sending a pleasant warmth down her spine. “I thought it was a poor idea to attempt it with my left hand.” He murmurs, his hand covering her own, and she has to bite her lip to keep her feelings at bay. 

“Mmm,” Brienne concedes. “And you trust me to wield a blade so close to your throat?”

Jaime lets out a low laugh. “I trust you with my life, Tarth.” It does not need to be said aloud, but his tone indicates it is even more true now than it was in the Haunted Forest beyond the Wall. All her life, she has been told she can never be a true knight, but it is what she wanted most in the world. To fight, to defend and protect. When Renly chose her to be in his guard, it was all she dreamed of, but Brienne quickly realized that despite the honor, it was not anywhere close to what she imagined as a child. She was never seen as an equal. The other members always doubted her skill, always questioned her. Their discomfit with a lady guard apparent, perhaps never more so than when they laid the blame for Renly’s death on her shoulders. 

And yet it was here, the site of her punishment, where she found the one person who looked upon her as an equal. Someone she has grown to respect. To love. 

It’s unfair that she should find the acceptance she has been searching for all of her life at the Wall. Jaime sits in the chair he often does, the firelight bringing out the gold flecks in his eyes, and Brienne cannot understand how all of the things she sought can be contained within him. 

She picks up a pitcher of water, her hands shaking a little, as she pours it into a large bowl. Dipping a cloth into the water, she uses it to dampen Jaime’s face, her eyes scarcely landing on his for long, but aware of how he studies her. His hand reaches for her a moment after she steps away from him, but Brienne catches his movement, her heart fluttering in her chest. 

She lathers the soap in her hands, asking him to tip his head back, and pats it over the bristles of his beard. Her fingers on his skin, Jaime hums in approval, a deep sound in his throat, but her movements must tickle, because he starts to chuckle. “Stop laughing,” she chides and he opens his eyes, the green twinkling at her mischievously. “Stop,” she repeats, unable to keep the smile from stretching across her face. 

_None of this is yours._ The thought rises as sudden as an unexpected wave, the type which makes your stomach sink, because there is not enough time to get out of its way before it sucks you underneath and pounds you into the rough shoreline, unable to catch your breath, certain you will be held under until it’s too late, and as soon as you think it, the water releases you and you can breathe again. The smile stripped from her face, Brienne turns away to clean her hands, thoroughly drying them in order to grip the blade carefully. 

When she steps into him again, Jaime looks as if he is going to say something, but she tells him to stay as still as possible. Brienne holds his neck in her left hand, but stoops over at the waist as she figures out the best angle. The weight of her hand on the blade is too soft at first and she barely grazes his beard. “Keep going.” He says, his voice so soft it surprises her. “If I come out looking uneven and patchy, we can fix it later.” _We._ They are playing at domesticity. A future they are not guaranteed. 

“I quite liked your beard,” she comments, her voice soft. 

His eyebrows lift in acknowledgement and his throat bobs. “I am well aware, my lady.” He teases, but the loss of it bothers her more than it should, as if the man she knows, the Jaime she recognizes is disappearing before her. 

Brienne has to repeat her motions a second time before he is fresh-faced, his cheeks rosy from her efforts. She steps back from him, admiring his face, and notes how the silver at his temples makes him look all the more striking. 

“How is it?” he asks, running his hand across the smooth skin of his cheek. “Be truthful, since you are the one who will look upon it most often.” Brienne’s chin trembles, unable to hold back any longer. His forehead furrows and Jaime pulls her into his lap, wrapping his arms around her, and simply holding her close for a long time. She wishes she could spend the rest of the day in his arms, Jaime’s forehead resting against hers, her fingers tracing along the collar of his tunic. “Is this about next week?” His voice is barely above a whisper, but she nods. As much as they may be able to fool themselves about their situation, they are merely living an illusion, because there is no solution, no path forward. “We will have to bear it, my lady,” he says quietly, but there is anguish in his eyes. 

“And after?” 

After the meetings are over and the leaders have returned to their duties, nothing will have changed for them. They will be in the same impossible situation they are in now. Jaime does not reply right away, but turns, glancing at the fire. “I have been thinking that…” His throat bobs, the flames dancing in his eyes. “That perhaps I should confess.” He-- _No_. Even as Lord Commander, Jaime cannot admit to their indiscretion without expecting consequences. 

_No_. She must whisper the word, because he turns towards her, his eyes no longer warm, but confused, distant. Brienne moves out of his lap, standing on shaky legs. “I would rather die by a White Walker’s blade than see you punished.”

He looks at her standing before him for a long moment, the firelight flickering over the features of his face. It’s unfair that he is able to read her so easily, while she is utterly lost in the storminess of his eyes. “Then what do you suggest?” He asks, his tone harder now. 

They do not have options. Either confess or escape. Or they could be found out, a fate which neither of them are eager to be party to. “Even if you divulge our relationship and are not punished,” she says, choosing her words carefully. “Do you really think they will extend the same courtesy to me?” 

“You did not kill Renly,” he replies quickly. 

“You know it is not as easy as that,” she sighs. “You said yourself that if anyone found out, we would be in danger. 

“Yes. Exile or death.” 

“There is no other solution? No other future?” The silence stretches out between them, a long, terrifying minute in which she realizes she’s misunderstood everything, that all Jaime wanted was the thrill of her submission, to catch his prey--and she made such easy prey--and then release it. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she tries to reason with herself, _but he said_ and _he promised_ . It is all too much to process after she has spent weeks in his bed, sleeping beside him, listening to him breathe. The room suddenly feels _so hot_ and she wipes at the sweat on her brow, begging him to say something, anything. 

“As I said before, I can confess-”

She cuts him off, snapping, “Perhaps you should consider placing me in the Rangers. So I shall not be here to tempt you.” Making for the door, she marches past him.

“Brienne,” he sighs. “How can you think that’s all this is to me?” Her hand is on the door, but his words make her pause. 

She doesn’t have the strength to answer, her hands trembling now, her throat knotted with worry as she holds back tears. They have spoken of many things, but Brienne has never told him the ugly things people have called her, of the broken betrothals, or of her feelings for a man who could never love her in return, who was slain as she stood there, useless. 

“When I heard they were sending a woman to the Wall, I thought whoever she might be, she was surely traitorous, vengeful beyond contempt. But then it was you.” She turns slowly, taking him in, lit behind by the fire, the gold shining in his hair. There is not a trace of mockery in his face. “I remembered your father’s name from when I was young, knew even as good as you are with a blade, you were likely too clever to be a ranger. I could not let Benjen have you.” Jaime glances down, his teeth biting his lip, smoothing his hand across his thigh. He’s nervous, realizing she knows him better than she thought. He stands, slowly crossing the room towards her. “Do you really think all those early morning sparring sessions were merely to get you into my bed? I enjoyed your company.” His hand comes up to gently cup her face, his thumb stroking her cheek. “That we met here, at the Wall, feels like some cruel jape. I thought perhaps, for once, instead of accepting my fate, I should fight for a different outcome. Confess my sins, rather than hide them. That is why I thought perhaps telling them would be the best approach.” 

His voice is certain and hearing Jaime speak so strongly, it is easy to see how he was selected as Lord Commander. The doubts her mind conjured moments ago have vanished. He wanted her from the very beginning. He’s grown accustomed to her company, as she has his, and he is determined to fight for their future, whatever it may be. No one has ever wanted her or desired her or cared for her, the way Jaime has. 

Brienne stares at him for a long minute, the soft, hopeful smile on his face tinged with sadness. The agony of their connection settles deep within her heart, but this moment she will treasure, no matter what happens.“If that is how you feel, why didn’t you say anything years ago? Why did you endure this fate if you thought there was a chance they may let you go?”

“Because seventeen years ago I had nothing to live for.”

She leans forward and kisses him then, wrapping her arms around him. _I love you._ She may whisper it along his jawline, because Jaime is lifting her feet off the floor and carrying her over to the bed.

Every movement is an assurance. His fingers along her collarbone, untying her jerkin and then the laces of her tunic. A declaration in the way he returns her kisses, warm and sure, lingering long enough to make her sigh and tug him closer. His mouth trails a path down, marking her as his, pausing at her breasts as she lets out soft sighs. His name a whisper on her lips, a constant refrain. She is not someone who would allow anyone to claim her, but Jaime knows this, has always seen her as more. He always asks before taking, and gives more in return. _I want you to have everything._

Hands press into her thighs, his body rounded towards her, lips and tongues and heavy breaths before he is kneeling, twisting off her boots, pulling down her breeches. He tugs her to the edge of the mattress, a flash of his wicked grin before it disappears between her thighs. A gasp coaxed from her lips and fingers curling in his hair. How he curls and flattens his tongue, kisses and sucks, there is no word for it other than worship. She takes in a breath over her teeth and begs him for more. A devotion, down on his knees, her legs over his shoulders. 

Her septa certainly never told her it could be anything like this. She is no deity, she knows that, but is content to let Jaime praise her all he wants. He removes his hand from where it’s curled around her thigh and lays it flat against the bed, and Brienne laces her fingers through his, their hands clutching as he draws her over the edge. _I am not willing to let you go._

When her body falls slack, he stands shakily, his eyes drinking her in. She needs to feel the weight of him against her, the heat from his body pooling with hers, and tugs him forward by his tunic until he is on top of her, a murmur of satisfaction in his throat, burrowing his face into her neck. They stay tangled together for a moment, her fingers sliding through his hair. _Everything will be alright_ , the soft sound seems to say. 

She undresses him slowly, memorizing the shy way he smiles at her, the muscled planes of his chest, fingertips ghosting over his skin, his scars.

Doubt tenses in her body but then he is soothing it all away again with his touch, his mouth, the gentle way he arranges them, so she can shudder with pleasure as she takes him inside of her. Hope in the slow roll of her hips. His parted lips, his open gaze an unfailing belief. The driving force of her body against his a guarantee. The way she curls towards him, how he reaches for her, a protection, an oath. _Yours. Mine._

Her name on his lips, repeated again and again. She cannot tell if his cheeks are wet or hers, but he is kissing her, his hand solid and warm on her spine, breath whispering against her ear. _I love you._

*

When the Night’s Watch leaders begin to arrive at Castle Black, Brienne is there beside the Lord Commander and Maester Aemon to receive them. She has seen Benjen at a distance before, returning to Castle Black with a pack of weary rangers, but is surprised at his long face and sharp features. His eyes are a beguiling blue gray, and she spots a slight twinkle in them as he speaks with Jaime, the ease between the two men apparent. He bows his head at her but does not speak, the entry hall filling with a blast of cold air as Cotter Pyke and Denys Mallister arrive. 

Pyke surveys them icily, while Mallister is older, with a long white beard, and he speaks to Jaime courteously. He is tall, and reminds Brienne a little of her father, although Denys is not as broad. She notices his Night’s Watch cloak is clasped with a beautiful silver eagle. A small sense of relief sweeps through her when they are done, even though she will scarcely be able to avoid visiting the counsel chambers throughout the week.

To her surprise, Jaime asks whether she wishes to attend any of the meetings. She can only shake her head determinedly. He chuckles at her reaction and a momentary panic blazes in her chest, afraid the other men will see the fondness between them, but they are busy greeting the other members of the Night’s Watch who have come to welcome them. 

Since she and Jaime have put their daily sparring sessions on hold, Brienne spends the mornings running drills with Jon and some of the other Rangers. It makes her think of Jaime’s words, how he would not let Benjen and the Rangers have her. Despite her presence every day in the yard, none of the men besides Jon pay her any mind. It is preferable to the type of attention she is used to receiving, but she wonders if Jon was not there, if they would toss out cruel words the same as the men at Renly’s camp. 

Although Brienne’s duties require her to enter the meetings several times a day, she spends the least amount of time inside the room as possible. Less likely to be surveyed by several sets of eyes. She is careful to never look at Jaime directly. 

One day, when she is delivering the mid-day meal, her eyes fall across the table, and Cotter Pyke stares back, clearly displeased by her presence. Even after she closes the door behind her, it’s as if the man’s eyes are still on her, and it makes her skin crawl.

* 

Someone is in her room. “Brienne.” Is she awake or dreaming? “Brienne,” the voice repeats, more urgent. Pushing herself up on her elbow, she rubs at her face.

Her eyes slowly adjust to the darkness and she can make out Jaime kneeling at her bedside as if he has been trying to wake her. “Jaime?” 

“They know.” 


	17. the end

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “They know,” he repeats. “We have to leave. Now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always, to forbiddenfantasies for her cheerleading and virtual hand-holding. <3

_They know._

He says it so easily, as if the ground isn’t splitting open and swallowing him whole. “What?” It comes out as a rasp, as if Pyke or one of the other men has snatched her by the throat. Instantly, unconsciously, her muscles tighten, preparing for a fight.

“They know,” he repeats. “We have to leave. _Now_.” Brienne hears it then, the tremor of worry in his voice. She bolts from her bed, grabbing Oathkeeper and a few other things, dressing quickly in the dark. It was inevitable, all along, this sudden awakening, hearing the words on his lips, but at least they have been training for it, in a way. 

They slip out of the castle, and head towards the stables. “What’s going to happen?” Brienne asks, her tongue feels too big for her mouth, and she’s barely able to swallow. 

He presses a warm hand into hers. “Do you trust me?” 

She nods. “Of course.” 

Even in the midst of their escape, she is grateful. To have had this. To have had him. For however long it may last. 

They don’t speak until they have put distance between themselves and Castle Black, the wind whistling in her ears. Jaime urges his horse faster, Brienne barely keeping up. The hood he wears over his golden hair has fallen around his shoulders as they ride. He glances behind them often, assuring they aren’t being followed, since the horses’ hooves are easy to track through the snow. “Where are we going?” They have no food, no supplies. 

“Long Barrow.” 

The horizon stretches before them, and yet it does not feel enough to hold them. 

*

They ride through the night, but when the sun rises, they’re even more exposed, the vast expanses of the North offer little in the way of shelter. At least there have been no signs of anyone following them, but it’s a matter of time. She notes the dark circles under Jaime’s eyes and wonders how the leaders of the Night’s Watch found out and why they would let him go if they knew, but her heart has been pounding since they left, her muscles aching from where they have been clenched tightly for hours, and she cannot bring herself to ask. 

It is nearing dusk by the time they reach Long Barrow. As Jaime dismounts, he catches her arm. “I love you,” he whispers, pulling her into him, so they are standing chest to chest. “If anything goes wrong, know that I love you.” 

Even in the midst of fleeing, upon hearing those words, there is a surge of tenderness for the man standing before her. “I love you, too,” she murmurs. “But you have to tell me what’s going on.” 

The deep, darkened hollows under his eyes make him look even more panic-stricken, like a feral cat backed into a corner. She has never seen Jaime fearful before. Weak, maimed, and weary, but not frightened. “I told Benjen everything.” 

“You _what_ ?” Her voice carries, farther and louder than she intended, and she jerks her body away from him. Her legs are shaking so badly she may sink into the snow. “Why?” It is the word she whispered, screamed, sobbed, over and over, as the Queen ordered her punishment. _Why me. Why are you doing this. Why why why._

“I had no other choice,” he murmurs. 

She glances away, considers for a moment if she should ride off on her own. It might end in her capture, her death, but maybe, if she is very lucky, it would lead home. Some small town, where she could offer her services as steward or beg a ship’s captain in return for a passage across Shipbreaker Bay. 

When Brienne looks back at him, the green of his eyes stands out among the gray skies. Pleading with her, begging silently. _Stay with me_. “I cannot explain everything now. There’s no time.”

It is difficult to crawl out from underneath the panic which has been coiling in her stomach since they left her room at Castle Black. Her hand lands on the hilt of Oathkeeper, finding a calmness, a strength in the gesture. Brienne takes a deep breath and nods. 

The entrance to Long Barrow is grimy and dusty, part of the entryway blocked with large rocks. She remembers Jaime telling her that the Night’s Watch wanted it either permanently sealed because of Mance Rayder’s escape or reopened as a garrison. A gratefulness washes over her that its fate had not yet been decided. It is the quickest means of escape. 

The stone of the old fortress crumbles beneath their feet. A long, dark ditch has formed along one side of the wall and Brienne lowers her head to watch her step, missing the flickering torch up ahead. When she looks up, there is a man with a thin, sharp face standing before her. Benjen Stark.

“You will have to do as I say,” Jaime murmurs, the heat of his body presses into hers for a moment. Her mind feels foggy, slow to process everything that is happening. Jaime’s hand grazes her thigh. She gasps and steps back, even as heat licks up her leg, but he is reaching to unbuckle her sword belt, taking Oathkeeper from her. Brienne nearly cries out upon noticing the careful closing off in his face. It makes her want to claw at her own skin. _Come back to me. Please, Jaime_.

They make their way through the crumbling hold, Stark leading the way, Brienne in the middle, and Jaime behind. Her body is numb from the long ride, but aware enough to realize that she is their prisoner of a sort. Jaime said he did not have time to explain everything. 

_Do you trust me?_ She clings to his question, her response, with every step. 

They traverse through the ruins of Long Barrow for what feels like days, although it’s merely hours. Still, when they finally reach the outdoors, the sky is darker, impossible to tell whether it is evenfall or dawn. 

She has not been told anything more about where they are going, and between the lack of sleep and the dread coiled tightly in her body, her mind jumps to the worst conclusions. Benjen could lead them back to Castle Black and turn them in. He could kill them, abandon them, leave them beyond the wall to starve, their bodies decomposing in the snow. 

Brienne thinks of alternate plans in case they need them. They could journey south towards Winterfell, but likely local men would be searching for them. The only other place they could go would be to the edge of the continent, far enough south from Eastwatch so as not to be spotted, but then what? They have no ship waiting for them, no passage across the Shivering Sea. 

There are more horses and snow falling softly. They ride for three days, her body heavy with exhaustion, as if she was wearing many suits of armor. The edges of her vision begin to blur and she blinks her eyes rapidly, trying to stay awake. Benjen says something, and it startles her out of her fog. Jaime’s reply, a warning tone in his voice. Her skin prickles. Perhaps they have been found. 

*

As they near the sea, the scent of saltwater makes her so homesick she could cry. Rope binds her wrists and a man with yellow eyes squints at her. “He better be no trouble.” 

Jaime steers her towards the ship, but she tries to jerk away from him. “Let go of me,” she croaks. He catches her arm, keeping her from falling to the ground. Then he is gone and her eyelids are heavy, so heavy.

*

Her whole body screams in pain. Then there is Jaime’s voice. “I know you’re stronger than this, Tarth,” he mutters. She must be dreaming, but she can make him out, lines darkening his face as he frowns, green eyes shining brightly. She wants to lay her head on his shoulder and sleep for days. “I’m trying to help you.” His words whisper away and she is cold and alone and wonders if he was ever there at all. 

There is a gentle hand in her hair. Perhaps she is already dead. Maybe she will see her mother again, be held by her brother. _Father, forgive me_. 

*

The next time she wakes, the undulation of waves strikes a sharp shock through her. _Jaime_ , but she must say his name aloud because he replies, “I’m here, Brienne.” Her eyes blink open in surprise. _Was it all a dream?_ She shies away from his touch, uncertain what he is to her now. “You’ve slept for three days. You were fevered.” He presses the back of his hand against her forehead, but she flinches. Brienne tries to ask something but her voice comes out choked, husky. “Here,” he pours water and holds the cup to her lips. 

She raises her hand to take it and sees the marks on her wrist. _Not a dream after all._ He takes the cup from her when she’s done, and Brienne wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, a tremor in her voice as she asks, “Am I your prisoner?” 

“You’ve been unwell.”

“Jaime.” It’s meant to be a warning, a demand, but her chin trembles. She needs to know. If he is her enemy, if he is delivering her to her fate. Would she be able to fight him when she loves him?

His touch is tentative at first, as if he expects her to push him away. Fingers stroke gently at her wrist, then his palm warm on her cheek. “They were always going to find out,” he mutters. “Cotter Pyke suspected us, just as you said at Eastwatch, and tried to get the others on his side. They accused me and wanted to unseat me.”

Her pulse quickens listening to the story. She clutches his hand in hers, increasingly grateful at his luck. They are both alive. They are together. “Jaime, I-”

“Shhh,” he soothes her. “It’s safe now. We’re going to be alright. Stark had a ship ready for us to sail through the Bay of Seals, across the Shivering Sea. We said you were a prisoner, a Night’s Watch member exiled.” _Essos._ His promises aren’t entirely true. The Night’s Watch could easily order men to search for them. They’ve traveled farther to recruit brothers before, much less to find fugitives. But Brienne knows he means to comfort her and she lets him, as the exhaustion overtakes her again. Her head is heavy and her eyelids flutter closed. “I will tell you the rest later, my lady.” His voice is low and sweet as honey and his lips brush across her cheek.

When Jaime returns, he is carrying a bowl of broth and a hard heel of bread. Relief floods through her at the sight of him. They do not know what awaits them in Essos, but he is beside her now. Jaime helps her sit up and balances the bowl on his legs, carefully spooning the soup into her mouth with his left hand. She marvels at his gentleness, their usual roles reversed. Brienne touches his knee when she is full, wanting to hear the rest of the story. 

He sets the bowl aside, hand smoothing across his thigh. “I told Benjen about Aerys.” His jaw clenches, releases with a sigh. “His relatives died by the King’s own hand. We agreed to enact our own justice, different from what they dole out in the Red Keep. It was just as well I told him when I did, because when Cotter Pyke came to him, trying to undermine me, he already knew the truth.” 

She frowns. “But why would he agree to help me?”

“I daresay your rapport with his nephew helped your cause,” Jaime chuckles and his smile soothes her heart. “Over the years, Benjen and I have forged a friendship, so perhaps he could see how much I adore you.” He lifts her hand in his and presses a kiss to it. 

Brienne should be angry that Jaime confided in Benjen without informing her first, but if he had not, they would be left to Pyke’s retribution, to judgement from the brothers. “You took a huge risk for me in telling him--”

He shakes his head, interrupting. “It was for _us_.” 

* 

_**Essos** _

As she unloads the mare’s saddlebags, arms wrap around her waist and a voice murmurs in her ear, “I thought perhaps you had run off with that merchant you’re always flirting with.” 

Brienne laughs, reaching back to press her hand to his cheek, his beard brushing against her palm. “It’s bartering.” 

“Or perhaps the Pentoshi prince chose you as his maid of the fields.” He drops a kiss to her neck, causing her to let out a soft sigh and relax into him. They’ve explored the coast, moving from Braavos to Volantis, then on to Myr for a short time before settling outside of Pentos, a small cottage in the fields.

“I haven’t been a maid for a long time, ser.” She turns in his arms, drinking him in as she always does, even if they have only been parted for a few hours. His hair is dyed darker, an attempt to disguise themselves, but sometimes when the sun glints off it, she remembers how bright it once shone. There was little Brienne could do to change her appearance. Her pale skin, blonde hair, and light eyes stuck out in whatever city they were in. Yet once Jaime’s tan darkened and he began dying his hair, he looked as if he had grown up on the shores of Essos, rather than Casterly Rock. A man who had wooed a delicate Westerosi woman and was building a home with her. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she draws him in for a long kiss. 

He raises his eyebrows, murmuring, “Even better, you could show him some things.”

“Jaime,” she replies, laughing, but her cheeks are flushed, mind wandering to long, lazy afternoons they have spent in the fields, finding pleasure in each other.

They know little of the language and keep mostly to themselves, only visiting the city on market days, or for the occasional stroll in the evenings, when their inland home is humid and suffocating. It’s nice to feel the ocean breeze on their faces, each recounting memories of the water near their childhood homes. 

He helps her unload the food and supplies carried from town, making teasing remarks about a different kind of feasting. Jaime flashes that wicked grin of his, insisting the small table they have is sturdy enough, but she draws him back to their bedroom, familiar heat licking up her spine. 

As they lay beside each other afterwards, the sun streaks through the small window, illuminating the lean muscle of his thighs, and hunger curls in her stomach again. She leans over and kisses him, her hand brushing down his body and takes him in her palm. “Fuck,” Jaime whispers against her lips. “I love you.” 

He has asked her countless times to marry him, most of them occurring while they’re in bed together, but she has yet to give him an answer. His eyes flutter closed as she strokes him, his lips parting. “Marry me,” she murmurs. 

Green eyes blink open, a hesitant grin pulling at his cheeks. “Are you certain?” His eyelids flutter again as his body responds to her touch. “Brienne.” His voice is heated but his hand covers her own, stopping her movements. 

“Yes,” she replies simply. “I love you.” She never imagined they would be allowed this much happiness.

“Are you asking me or commanding me?” Jaime teases, eyes sparkling. 

“Both,” she smiles in reply. 

He pulls her on top of him then, his mouth against her skin as he murmurs, _yes, yes, yes_.

*

Maybe one day when the war is over and peacetime is upon their lands again, they will return home. They will sail through the sparkling blue waters of Tarth, which her husband insists, must match her eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HOPE this chapter met your expectations. I was quite nervous about wrapping this journey up. 
> 
> Thank you all for your lovely comments and support and flailing! This story took off in a way I never expected, and if I think about it too long, I'm going to make myself cry. I appreciate your support so much, words don't do it justice. Thank you thank you!


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